FAR
by LittleLotte17
Summary: Varric can only tell what he knows about Hawke's story, and what he made up later, but there are some things we never share, even with our favorite dwarves. Pro mage Hawke, Friendmanced Fenris, Rivalmanced Anders- I basically just took the story you already love on a joyride and fleshed out some of the character development. Please R&R!
1. Where the Heart is

AN: Well here I am starting a DA2 Fic when my DA:O one is still in the works... *sigh* Darn it Bioware!

This is basically a retelling (which I am more than a little loathe to do, because that what _everybody_ does for DA2) But it is going to be a bunch of linear one-shots dealing with character development instead of sitting down and trying to hash out the entire game. I chose to label this as Hawke/Fenris because that is the eventual outcome, but this is very much a Anders/Hawke/Fenris triangle. That being said, please don't bombard me with hate comments whenever the fellow you aren't rooting for gets some action. Thank you.

Rated M for gore, language and probably some eventual sexy times.

Disclaimer: BioWare owns all of Thedas!

Now, I give you FAR: the story of **F**enris, **A**nders, and** R**aen.

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><p>He stood out on the deck of the ship, despite the wind lashing his face and the rain pouring over him in torrents, because this was a dawn he could not bare to miss. Even if the only difference between day and night was the murky light beyond the clouds turning a sickly yellow and the few stray shafts of sun that lance through the patches in the iron-colored sky, he would bear witness to it: his first dawn of true freedom.<p>

He remembered running away from the circle tower in Ferelden when he was thirteen, convinced he was clever enough to outsmart the Templars and hide his powers, certain that the laws of the Chantry weren't intended for mages as talented as _he_ was.

It had lasted a grand total of seventy two hours. Three days of sleeping in ditches and covered head to toe in mud. Three nights of running practically blind in the dark and stealing food scraps from nearby farms and villages. When they finally dragged him back the First Enchanter deemed that he was simply a roguish youth and _not_ a blood mage, and asked the Knight Commander in his dry beaten down voice to show the boy some leniency.

Apparently, the Templar's idea of _leniency_ was a month in solitary confinement and a beating so sound that the only way he could sleep was on his stomach, and even then it only came in fitful bursts when he was well and truly exhausted. Afterwards he was different; he studied three times as hard and tried to lull his captors back into the thought that he was benign. He had lost this battle, but he swore to himself that he would win the war. All they had done was strengthened his resolve to someday live free of their chains, dark towers, and suspicious glances. He would wait. He would bide his time. Because the next time he ran, he would _not_ come back, no matter what that might mean.

He thought his chance might have come when they transferred him and a few other mages to the Gallows in Kirkwall. In the middle of the night, the templars that were guarding them had been suddenly called into service by the local law enforcement to help with a particularly rowdy barroom brawl, leaving a single knight to stand guard over four mages who are supposedly sleeping. It seemed too good to be true, to be a single well aimed sleep spell away from freedom, and the docks were practically at his doorstep, the open sea beckoning him to a place far beyond where they could ever hope to trace him with his phylactery.

He almost did it, but then he took a moment to think and realized that he had no coin, no contacts, and no way of knowing if any ships were even leaving the harbor tonight. 'Live free or die trying' was a motto he very much believed in, but he would like to avoid the _dying_ part if at all possible. For one comrade, Leina, the temptation was too great and she tried to sneak out one of the inn's grimy windows. Then there was a scream piercing the night and the sound of a loud dream-shattering crash. He did not see what happened next, but he heard it, and he _knew_. The lone Templar who was watching over them barreled down the stairs and out into the back alley behind the inn to find the petrified woman, her arm or leg broken most likely, crouching down with the rest of the trash the world had tried to throw away. Then came the sounds of an angry male voice, low, threatening, muffled by his helmet, and Leina's high pitched whimpers of fear. He thought of her watery blue eyes, the freckles that seemed to only favor the right half of her face, and her nervous smile. Then there was a whooshing sound, a powerful surge of magic, and a deafening roar, and he knew there would be no mercy.

He found himself immediately hating both Kirkwall and the Gallows. No matter what the locals might want to believe about their circle tower, it was still very much a prison. He missed Ferelden, the cold and the wet, and the sound of dogs barking, there were a few too many Orlesian's among the rich and powerful in this city for him or any of his countrymen to feel very comfortable. But, in truly Orlesian fashion, the rich of Kirkwall blow every malady and ache hugely out of proportion, affording someone with a gift for healing plenty of legitimate excuses to leave his new 'home'.

He never would have dreamed that he would find his opportunity for escape in a noblewoman's sickbed. Even drawn and pale and bleary-eyed with fever, Leandra Amell was beautiful. The jewel of her family, her parents had been worried to the point of hysterics, and not only demanded the best healer the Circle could provide, but that said healer must stay in their house until their darling daughter was cured. To say that he was happy with both of these commands would have been an enormous understatement.

He was straightforward and honest, even if he was a bit of a smartass, which she liked. She was kind and understanding about mage freedoms and blinked up at him with those big blue eyes, which he loved. And the way her soft lips formed around his name when she rolled her eyes at one of his stupid jokes and called him '_Mal-colm_'.

He probably would have fallen for her if she had been a disease ridden harlot from the Blooming Rose, but she wasn't. She was from a wealthy family, which meant that she had _coin_, and she was noble, which meant that she had _contacts_. It wasn't _why_ he chose her, but it certainly made freedom a much more tangible dream when he had kissed her soundly in a dark alcove and breathed in her ear, _"run away with me."_

And here they were, thanks to the efforts of a kind templar, which he never would have expected, and the aid of the Grey Wardens, which he had expected even less. True, they probably would have made a break for it anyway, but between the Warden Commander granting them passage on a ship that was supposed to be used exclusively on business for the order, and Ser Carver's promise to destroy his phylactery and create a false trail, he very much doubted how far they would have made it on their own.

She called is name and he turned to her, soaked and smiling, to see her shuffling unsteadily across the deck towards him. He held a hand out to her and she let him guide her into his arms, grumbling about how he was sopping wet and a bloody fool, even as she settled contentedly against his chest. He could feel the slight swell of the best reason for running pressed between them, despite the early stage and the layers of damp clothing. He wrapped the excess fabric of his cloak around Leandra, trying for some kind of makeshift cocoon to keep the spark of life between them relatively warm and dry.

Even if this child was born without magic, he knew that his blood has cursed them to the life of a wanderer, a nomad. He knew that they will more than likely be poor and they'll have to keep a low profile and _Maker_, he had almost nothing to give a child in the way of safety or comforts, but damn it if he wasn't going to give them everything he _had_. This baby might also make a lot of things much more difficult in terms of hiding, but he knew it was a gift, and one that so few of his kind are granted. He would make sure his child remembered how precious they were, how wonderful it was to have a family to claim. This baby would be as welcome in his life as this storm clouded sunrise, as welcome as a sudden shower of rain.

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><p>She was six the first time they came. On a warm sticky summer night, the sounds of cicadas singing and chirping frogs from the nearby pond were suddenly drowned out by angry shouts and raised voices. She awoke to the thudding of her father's heavy soled boots and the front door slamming open as he rushed to meet the rabble that had formed outside their home.<p>

She snuck to the bedroom door, pressing her ear against the peeling painted wood to try and make out words. The voices seemed strangely familiar, as if they might be people from the village, but that couldn't be right…. These voices were filled with so much fear…so much _hate_. Surely they couldn't be the same people who smiled at her when she went to the market with her mother, who invited her to eat dinner with them after a day of playing with the other children out in the wheat fields. _'Why would they want to hurt us?'_

"_Apostate_," The voices seethed out of the inky blackness of the night, "_mage_, _maleficar_." These words were more than titles, they were_ accusations_, javelins of revulsion flung at their family, though she didn't quite know why. Then she thought of her father, about the way his big warm hands emanate a soft blue-white light sometimes when she was hurting, and then she thought about how he would raise a single callused finger to his lips afterwards to remind her, _'Shhh, this is a secret.'_ And suddenly she was _afraid_, for the first time in her life. It froze the very blood in her veins, and rooted her to the thin mattress of her bed when she retreated there in her new found cowardice.

There were lighter footsteps pounding towards the door now, and the frantic noise of her mother's pleading. Muffled sounds of struggle, a sick wet-sounding thud, and Leandra's scream cut through the thick summer air. She was calling out for her father, mimicking her mother's panicked voice outside the house, begging for him to get up.

Across the room, the ruckus had finally woken the twins, who wailed merely for their disturbed rest, blithely unaware of the danger at their doorstep. Bethany whimpered pitifully while Carver roared his disapproval with all the strength his little lungs could muster. She should hush them, go and offer comfort like an older sibling should…but she could still hear her mother crying, and she couldn't hear her father at all, and both of those things were more than enough to quell her courage.

It was distant at first, a dry far off crackle followed closely by a pale coil of smoke that slithered underneath the bedroom door. The heat ate quickly through the thatched roof, the distant sizzle building into a fearsome dusty roar as it tore through their home, as if seeking the siblings in the darkness. Terror pooled somewhere in her chest as a dark cloud of ash slowly seeped into the room; she heard the twins cease their crying only to burst into a flurry of hacking coughs, and she suddenly wondered if they were all about to die.

"_Please!_" She heard her mother implore frantically, "Not my babies- They're only _children_- For the love of the Maker, _stop_ this! Let me_ go_! Let me save them, _I beg you_!" The words broke some dam deep within her, and as a pressure grew somewhere at the center of her being she realized that she was more than just a scared little girl locked in a flaming cottage. She was a Hawke, and she was _furious_.

_'I will **not** die!' _she thought to herself angrily. Over and over she repeated the words in her mind fiercely, willing them into truth. The strange pressure in her chest coiled tightly, to the point of almost pain, demanding to be set free, but she didn't know how to, so she simply screamed. And there was a harsh light wrapping around her being, and the bedroom door was charred, and there was a strange and distant whispering in her head and the room was filled with a blistering heat, and her brother and sister had grown eerily quiet. But just when she felt like she might simply explode into a million tiny fragments, she heard her father's voice.

"RAEN!" He bellowed her name, because he _knew_; he could feel it. She was just like him, and somehow that realization was the key, and the power that had been amassing deep within her burst free in a violent torrent of dazzling blue light. It flooded from her every pore, ripped from her mouth, poured from her eyes; she became nothing but a gateway, a vessel, for this strength that had been slumbering for six long years.

She thought she heard far off screaming and the sound of several pairs of feet running, but all she could really focus on was how cold it seemed suddenly, and how everything in the house had gone still and silent, even if that slight buzzing in her head wouldn't go away. It was so nice compared to all that blazing heat and yelling. As the world faded to black around her, she wondered if her father will be mad that she gave the secret away, even though she didn't know it was her secret too.

When she next awoke, it was in her father's arms, swaying and jerking along in the back of a canvas covered wagon. The cold light of predawn was peaking in under a loosely tied flap, casting gray-blue highlights over what appeared to be the majority of their possessions, stuffed hastily into bags, as well as her father's looming figure as he slept. He seemed older than she remembered somehow, the lines of his face more careworn, the sliver at his temples more prominent…. She wondered what it was about last night that had made him look so much…_less_ all of the sudden. Then she noticed the bruising across his face, the angry purple and ocher welts down his neck, and the blood on his clothing. She thought of the surge of raw power that ripped from her, and she began to consider that perhaps it was not that he had become _less_, but that she was suddenly _more_.

"There you are, my little Gale." His deep even voice rumbled her out of her revelry. She blinked up at his eyes, the same stormy gray as her own, but so _so_ **so** much sadder, and pondered at the wisdom hidden behind them, and the secrets, and the loss. She said nothing for a while; afraid of retribution, but when he smiled down at her, she found a question slipping out despite herself.

"Are you mad at me, Daddy?" She asked in a raspy whisper. He stroked her dark hair fondly with one slightly swollen bloody hand.

"Of course not, Sweetheart," He reassured her with a widening smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You saved us, _all_ of us, and you were very brave…" He paused, uncertainty she had never seen before surfacing on his face.

"…what did I _do_?" She asked, the fact that he was anxious unnerved her, but at this question he gave her a true easy grin.

"You froze the _entire_ house!" He chuckled warmly, "Solid! I had a real time trying to thaw everything fast enough before the villagers could round up the Templars."

"I…_froze_ it? Like magic?!" A rush of both excitement and fear swept through her at the prospect.

"_Exactly_ like magic," Malcolm told her, his grin fading, "You're a mage, Raen… just like me." She took a breathless moment to ponder this information.

"Is that why they came for us?" she asked him, "Is that why they were angry?"

"Yes." It was amazing how that one word could carry so much world crushing weight. "You can't tell _anyone_, Raen. **_Never_**. It'll be our little secret, okay? Yours and mine."

"Why?" She practically sobbed, the seriousness in his tone scaring her.

"They'd come after us again," He explained patiently, "They'd take you away, and they might hurt your mother and the twins." She stared and him with wide somber eyes and nodded slowly. "Good girl."

"Daddy…are we…_bad_?" She asked him tearfully, "Is that why they hate us?" He hugged her to his chest and tucked her beneath his chin, rubbing soothing circles across her back.

"No, Dearheart," he said emphatically, "We're just different, and some people think that different is scary. Only our actions determine whether we are good or bad, not how the Maker created us. Magic is a _gift_, Raen. What do we do with gifts?" She craned her head back to peer up at him uncertainly.

"Give them to people we love?"

"Exactly."


	2. Ashes

AN: Alright. Lemme just say...this chapter and I are not friends. It was originally about half of its current length, and then I realized...it sucked. And it took me simply FOREVER to fix it. Ugh. But here it is. I swear, if I didn't need this back-story for things later, I would have chucked this out the window _so_ fast.

Next Time in Kirkwall! ...And hopefully things will start to get more interesting!

Rated M, so lets all be big kids here.

Disclaimer: Bioware owns everything, though I kind of went for a joyride with Malcolm. :D

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><p>The wasting came like a silent plume of gray smoke, so soft and frail looking, no one could guess at the hungry fire nipping at its heels. It ravaged the farmlands of Ferelden, pretending to be a gentle spring cold, until the tell-tale stain of blood appeared in the phlegm that wrenched from deep down in the lungs, and by then it was too late. A fever raged-consumed you- you could neither eat nor sleep as the disease devoured you from within.<p>

For once, they were welcomed wherever they went; no one could care less that the Hawkes were a family fairly _crawling_ with mages if it meant that their loved ones might have a few hours free from pain before they were lost to the Fade. Malcolm still only treated those in outlying farms and villages a few days journey away, never in Lothering proper, still not one to tempt fate and get them evicted from their home. At first the Hawke sisters went with him, two young giggling teenage apprentices, but when it became clear that this was a plague, he insisted on going alone. What happened seemed inevitable in retrospect, but somehow, none of them truly believed it _could_ happen.

Raen had never known her father to be sick. He was always hearty and hale; a man who lent others his strength, because he had plenty to spare. He was a big man, his presence all wide shoulders and laughing bass, and now he could barely lift his head to take a sip of water. He was a sunken shell of his former self, hollowed cheeks and palled waxy skin making his usual smile a strained, unsettling thing that worried far more than it comforted.

They all took turns at his bedside, the girls pouring healing magic into his quickly withering body, knowing it was useless, but unable and unwilling to accept that they could do _nothing._ Late one night, when the end was near, and all the rest of the Hawke brood were trying to get a few scant hours of troubled sleep, Malcolm reached out to his eldest child, and she took his once strong hand in both of her trembling ones.

"Gale?" he rasped out his special name for her, the one he only used when they're alone, or she'd done something he was particularly proud of. It almost hurt to hear it now, as a question spoken into the gloomy shadows that clouded his bleary fever-blind eyes. She pressed his clammy hand against her cheek, sending a cool blue-white wave of healing magic washing over him though their tangled fingers and praying that whatever youthful vitality had spared her from this disease would somehow flow into him with this spell, and bring him back to them.

"I'm here, Father." She managed to choke out through the tears clogging her throat. She could sense the cells in his body decaying one by one through her healing magic, the slowing beat of his weakening heart, the wheezy gasp of his tired lungs; she could feel her father _dying_, and being a mage had never seemed like less of a gift. He smiled warmly at her, or tried to, but his gaze was fixed somewhere past her face, vague and listless, the deep sharp gray of his irises gone murky as he looked beyond her, into another life perhaps, or maybe through the veil separating this plane from the fade…or maybe he saw nothing at all.

"You know, Gale," He began haltingly; "I've always thought that of all our children, _you_ were the most mine." His chortle was more of a grating cough, "Though I've never been sure if that was a good thing or not." Her answering laugh was a short wet-sounding bark, how could belonging to him be anything _but _good? It was true that Bethany had inherited his kind broad face, and Carver had gotten his height and well, _manliness_, leaving Raen with a strange conglomeration of Leandra's fine boned features and Malcom's long limbs, but there was no doubt about who got his heart…and his smart mouth.

"So, that's why Mother is always threatening to disown me…and here I just thought it was because I was boyish and hopeless with the housework." She joked lamely, the words sticking in her throat as she felt the pinprick of tears burning behind her eyes. His mouth curled up in a shabby imitation of his normal grin as he answered.

"That's it exactly." He told her, "You can't imagine how pleased I was the first time your mother accused me of being a corruptive influence on you, and ruining your chances of finding a decent husband." She snorted; she could just picture it, Raen Hawke: the Apostate Bride, who could burn water even without the aid of magic, and till soil better than her six foot-something burly brother, not to mention the whole 'power to fry people with lightening' _thing_. It was a wonder men weren't beating down her door already.

"Well, you know me," She said in a breathy voice, full of false cheer, "I could never settle for 'decent' anyway."

"Don't you _ever_." He exclaimed softly, suddenly serious as he gripped her hand with what little strength he had left. "Be fierce, my daughter, be _extraordinary_. And don't you settle for anything or any_one_ less."

"Yes." Was all that escaped her, as Raen began to sense the 'goodbye' in his tone. Panic swelled within her, sending her heart hammering against her chest as a million inadequate thoughts and words crowded her mind, all vying for a chance to be heard and thought and said. But what can you say to a falling sky? To the crumbling pillar that had always supported your whole world? Nothing could ever be enough, so her simple affirmative would have to suffice.

"I _do_ know you, my little Gale, my tiny hurricane, my sweetest storm," He whispered, his cold callused fingers finding her jaw and stroking it gently, "That's why I'm asking you to look after the rest of them for me. You will, won't you?"

"I'd give _anything_ to-" She started, but he shushed her firmly.

"Shhh, I know that too," He said, "That's why I'm also going to tell you this: when dividing up the happiness you've fought so hard to bring home to those you love, make sure to keep a slice for yourself." She could only nod through her tears. He sighed contentedly as sleep claimed him, leaving her to mourn bitterly in silent wracking sobs. When the dawn came, she kissed his cheek softly and whispered that she loved him, even knowing that he was far beyond where her voice could follow.

When Leandra saw her firstborn's face in the light of that cruel sunrise, she knew the Malcolm was dead, and he had taken their eldest child with him. She was not sure she could recognize this straight-backed stranger who stared out at the horizon with flinty eyes. It looked like her daughter, but her Raen was a child, scabby-kneed and laughing. Who was this solemn-faced woman, this fiery battle-maiden, this wounded Hawke?

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><p>She twisted the thin silver ring around her middle finger, a nervous habit she acquired roughly three years ago. She stopped and stared down at the bird in flight stamped into it, a hawk. It was a cheap and flimsy thing, her mother's gift to her father for the first anniversary of their married life, a bright and brittle charm that never left his hand. Raen knew she should have given it to her mother, but perhaps Leandra understood how much her eldest needed it, this last shining piece of the one they've lost, because the first time she saw her daughter wearing it, she merely gave her a thin watery smile and never asked for it back. So, Malcolm Hawke's child kept it close, this precious scrap of memory, kept it safe, because that is what you do with the ones you love.<p>

And they'd all grown together, and they'd all grown apart. The farmhold in Lothering became comfortable and slightly decrepit. They all knew that they should move because they'd been here for nearly ten years, which was longer than they'd ever lived _anywhere_, but there was an unspoken understanding that Malcolm was _here_ and none of them could bear to leave him. Scattered to the winds, his ashes were part of the plants they grew, the water they drank, and the air they breathed. He was their Maker, and he had abandoned them.

Raen worked to keep their faith the best she could. Their income shrank, but never vanished. Harvests were leaner, but they never went hungry. She tried to be everything they needed. But she didn't know how to teach Carver to be a man, or how to reaffirm Bethany's belief that they should fight for their freedoms, and try as she may, she could not mend her mother's broken heart. Barely out of her teens, she found that she had no idea how to make this awkward leap into adulthood, let alone how to go about replacing a father, a mentor, and a husband.

She saw something like regret settle in her mother's eyes, and had no choice, but to let it take root, and hope that some day she could make it up to her. She saw her baby sister bury her fears in faith, and had no choice, but to watch the guilt of having magic eat away at her, and pray that her own example would someday be worth following. She saw her brother's mounting restlessness, and had no choice, but to watch him ride off to join the soldiers massing at Ostagar and beg their wayward Maker and his extra crispy bride that the stubborn ass made it home in one piece.

She and her brother have had the worst of it, they fought and screamed and pushed at each other because they were both broken and don't know how to handle it. Her mother and sister merely flinched and sighed, knowing that nothing could be done. She remembered the way Carver used to follow her around like a mabari pup when they were younger; practically worshiped the ground she walked on. He trusted her, blindly and implicitly, but she was only human and it had been inevitable that one day he would realize it.

That day came when she was ten; he had come pelting up to her on a soggy spring morning after a particularly bad storm, clutching something to his chest. It was a baby bird, barely a fledgling, with damp feathers and dark glassy eyes: dead. He held it out to her with little trembling hands and big hopeful eyes, and she _tried_ to heal it, even though the odd angle of its neck and the bones protruding from its wing told her it was futile. The bird's neck straightened, the sinews and bones knitted back together, and the skin stretched back over the animal's wounds, but there was no pulse, no twitch, no sign of life. There had been a long apprehensive pause, and then Carver had looked up at her, accusation written all over his face, and said, _'Why can't you fix it, Raen?'_

She had been a fallen hero in his eyes ever since, and he was bound and determined to outdo her, which would have been fine with her, if it didn't also mean that he questioned every single Maker-damned decision she made. She was _trying_ blast it all, but every time they had a poor crop, or a close call with the Templars, every time their mother came across something that belonged to Malcolm and broke down sobbing, she could see it scrawled boldly across his handsome surly face, _'Why can't you fix this, Raen?'_

It was the twins' sixteenth nameday that marked the beginning of their true rivalry however, the point past which they had nothing but sharp words and scathing rebuttals left for each other. A year after their father's passing, Carver was still sulking over not being left in charge, despite being the eldest and _only_ son, and Raen was just eager to make it seem _normal_, to remember this day for the people who _were_ here, instead of focusing on Malcolm's absence. The bronto distinctly _not_ in the room. The empty chair. The missing tones from the chorus of their laughter.

Bethany had been eying an Orlesian silk gown with barely concealed longing. The dress was beautiful in all of it's frivolous glory, smooth and sleek as water, shifting and rippling at the slightest touch or movement, delicate as the girl who yearned for it, and as red as sin, as a ripe apple in the sunshine, as the dark blush of a maiden's cheek. Raen was a flurry of thriftiness, conspiring with her mother about everything they could possibly do without in order to grant their sweetest girl this one last childish dream.

Carver's gift was infinitely easier: a wriggling mabari pup, the runt of the litter, given freely as payment for healing a farmer's youngest child whose leg had been trampled by a skittish mare in the next town over. They had remembered the dark haired apostate who had come to ease their aunt's passing from the wasting, and had asked for Hawke, but had to be content with his daughter. In the end though, both parties were well pleased, the boy with barely a limp, and the mage with a peace offering for her brother. He was a handsome male dog with dark intelligent eyes, despite being a bit puny. Finally, Carver would have a fellow warrior around the house, and another boy besides; someone he could relate to and confide in, and most importantly, someone who would see _him_ as the center of their world.

But, as it usually did, everything _everything_ **everything **went horribly wrong. Just when Raen and Leandra had managed to scrape enough coins together for Bethany's dress, they returned to the store to find that it had already been sold to a merchant heading for Denerim. The tailor explained that it had been taking up valuable space, and after all, how many people in Lothering would have a call to wear Orlesian finery? When he saw their dismay he kindly offered to sew them a new one- for three times the price. So, when her baby sister unwrapped her present, all she found was a small square of that deliciously scarlet silk. The eldest Hawke child cringed in her shame, but her sister knew it for what it was and smiled kindly as she tied it loosely about her neck, a swath of blood red against her moon-white skin. To Raen, it was a reminder of failed love and half-purchased hopes, a symbol of all the things they've had to do without, for simply being born with magic. It was the first blazingly bright mark of how she had failed her father and one that would never be removed from her sister's lovely throat. What Bethany did out of genuine gratitude and love tortured her eldest sibling in the quietest cruelest kind of way.

It was even worse with Carver, as it always seemed to be. He was thrilled at the thought of his own mabari, smiling and laughing like a boy who had never known disappointment, like a son who had never lost his father, like a brother who might forgive his sister at long last. The pup was happy to have a playmate, and tumbled around joyfully in the dirt with his new companion. But as soon as Raen made a move to leave them to it, the dog was at her side, his gaze fixed firmly on her in a devotion that was purely canine and utterly inescapable. She tried everything short of physically hitting the beast, but to no avail; the mabari had chosen _her_ and would have no other for his master. She named him Porthos, after one of her brother's childhood heroes, and tried to send the dog after him when he went out to run errands or to practice his swordplay in the fields, but the damage was already done, the betrayal irreparable; Caver wouldn't even speak to her for months. After a few weeks of watching the sad wistful way Bethany fingered the silk at her neck and her brother's attitude stopping somewhere just shy of loathing, Raen suddenly discovered how much she loved wandering the woods and the vacant fields; anywhere she knew they wouldn't catch her crying.

So, when Carver had enlisted she had to let him leave, despite their mother's weeping, because she could see that he needed something that was entirely his, and it may as well be fighting darkspawn. He also had a chance for something that she and Bethany could never have: a normal life. And he was never going to find it if he had to constantly worry about outing his apostate sisters. She had to give him his freedom, because it was the only thing she had left _to_ give him.

That didn't mean she wasn't worrying like mad, however. When the news came about the fall of Ostagar, her mother had shut herself away in her room, the thought of losing her only son so soon after her husband's death was simply to much to bear. Raen had just stood there, her body gone numb, her brain tuned out from everything, her only thoughts about_ escape_, and _away_, and _Carver_. It was Bethany who saved them; she refused point blank to acknowledge the idea of her twin's death. _'I would know.'_ She told Raen stubbornly, staring her older sister in the eyes and daring either of them to argue, and they believed her.

They wanted it to be true, because it _had_ to be true, but _Maker_ did Raen hate the waiting. She was impetuous at the best of times and the utter turmoil the village was dissolving into was _not_ helping. She tried to distract herself with mindless menial labor around the farmhold, and she searched vainly for that elusive calm and patience that she seemed to have only when healing a patient, but to no avail. Every day more refugees from villages farther south poured in, their lips brimming with horror stories and their eyes full of fear, and all the eldest Hawke child could think of was that her little brother was out there somewhere, all alone.

She was picking the last of the slightly browned and sun-baked apples growing from the tree in front of their house. There were only a few villagers left in Lothering now, those who were too weak or wounded to leave, and a handful like her family who were still clinging to the hope of a loved one returning. She felt the weight of the overripe fruit settle in her hands, familiar, comforting, and she thought that she would give anything just to get her stupid baby brother back. Like a summoning, a dark blur appeared at the edge of their yard, lumbering awkwardly towards her in the bright cold sunlight, and for half a second she thought it was her father, and then for a few seconds more she thought that it might be a darkspawn, and all she could do was stand there with her mouth hanging open and think, _'Bethany was wrong,' _but then his voice rang out loud and clear and condescending as ever.

"Of all the stubborn, nug-brained…. What are you still doing here?! They're coming, RUN!"

And they did. With foresight and a frankly stupid amount of hope, she had kept four packs ready and waiting by the door, though they were filled with only a few meager health poultices and the scarce rations they have been able to set aside, they would fair much better than without. In a matter of minutes they were chasing her mabari out the door and away from the closest thing they'd ever had to a stable home and racing frantically away from Lothering, trying to ignore the distant sounds of screaming as the first wave of the horde swept into their hometown.

Raen focused solely on Porthos, his strong legs and long loping gait hypnotized her and kept the thoughts about everything they left behind at bay. And what would happen if those terrible sounds she was hearing managed to catch up with them. Carver was limping a bit, but managed a steady pace beside her. Bethany trailed close behind, huffing slightly in exertion; she had never been one for physical labor. And Leandra, still the delicate noblewoman despite the years of rugged peasant life, took up the rear, panting heavily and stumbling. They ran, until their muscles ached and their lungs burned, until every step became an agony. There could be no turning back. There was no going home.

Even so, somewhere between the desperation and the running and the general _doom_ of their situation, the twins found time to start bickering, and Carver thought up a way to blame everything on Raen. You'd think she was one of the Magisters who had corrupted the Golden City, the way he carried on, and there was something oddly comforting about that. That even scrambling for their lives; her family didn't change.

"Where are we even _going_ to?" Bethany moaned childishly, "We've got no coin, no family nearby…We can't just wander aimlessly."

"I was thinking a general sort of _that_ way direction." Her sister replied, gesturing with one arm away from the rising smoke that was Lothering.

"Oh, _wonderful_, lets all stand around cracking stupid jokes and whimpering while the darkspawn catch up to us. A simply _brilliant_ plan, Sister." Carver sneered.

"We can go to Kirkwall." Lenandra intervened, before the bickering had a chance to escalate into an all-out row.

_Kirkwall_: the name sent a strange shiver of silence through the air, and Raen felt a faint prickle of cold dread pass her by. A ghost in the night, a footstep over a shallow grave, cold eyes in the dark; she gulped compulsively before shaking the feeling away.

"Well, I can honestly say that wouldn't be my _first _choice." She quipped, her mouth curling up in an uncertain grin.

"There are a _lot_ of templars in Kirkwall, Mother." Bethany reasoned.

"Father certainly never had anything nice to say about it." Carver agreed.

"I know that," Leandra snapped at the mention of Malcolm, "But we still have family there, and an estate." The trio of siblings sighed heavily in unison, knowing the look on their mother's face was one that left no room for argument.

"Then we best get to Gwaren and take ship." Bethany muttered a little dejectedly, she never could stand the thought of Leandra being displeased with her.

"It'd be nice if we miraculously discovered the money to _pay_ for that little boat ride." Raen grumbled after her, "I suspect we aren't the only people who have thought of this plan, and we certainly aren't the richest…"

"If we survive long enough for that to even be an issue," Carver interjected, "I'll just be happy to get out of here." The conversation was brought to an abrupt end by a masculine-sounding yell and the arrival of a fresh wave of darkspawn.

Bethany was right; the Maker must have some kind of twisted sense of humor. As if having your home razed to the ground and being chased down by monsters that you only ever hear of in stories meant to frighten children into being good wasn't bad enough, now there was a sodding _Templar_ as well! Along with his butch blade-wielding wife, who looked like she could take on half the horde by herself. It was enough to bring Raen close to tears. But not so close that she didn't inform said Templar point blank that if he so much as _looked_ at her sister funny she would end him. With fire, or ice, or a sharpened stick, anything would do really; no Hawke was getting dragged to the Circle on her watch.

The woman had a mop of carrot-colored hair held in check by a somewhat silly looking red headband and a strong squarish jaw that made it hard to truly label her as 'pretty', but there was a fire in those intensely green eyes that Raen liked. That, coupled with her good sense not to try and pick a fight when they were all a bit preoccupied with fleeing for their lives endeared Aveline to the eldest Hawke quickly. Plus, Porthos liked her, and a wise Fereldan never discredited the survival instincts of their dog. The Templar might be an issue later, but for now they must press on. But Bethany was going to keep a healthy distance from him anyway if she had anything to say about it, injured or no.

Wesley Vallen studied the apostate sisters, the elder burning him with her flint gray eyes and the younger glancing about nervously, like a child who got caught being naughty. His gaze softened on Bethany, as men's gazes tended to do; he thought she had a kind face. But it was really his wife who reminded him where they were and the sheer ridiculousness of trying to detain two adult mages in full control of their powers and their burly brother while alone in the middle of the wilderness as they are all slowly surrounded by darkspawn. He relented, a little more easily than he should perhaps, but if he was honest with himself he was in no condition for a fight even if all the other variables had been taken care of. Praise the Maker for Aveline's levelheadedness.

"Let me look at that." A command, but a gentle one, and the Templar was surprised when he looked down to see that the hands gripping his arm belonged to the oldest of the Hawke siblings. Her fingers were probing, but not painful; the practiced hands of a healer.

"I think the sword arm is probably a loss, even with healing." He told her stiffly. She merely grinned at him.

"You've never had a good healer then." She said smugly, as she continued her examination and began slowly pouring cool blue-white healing magic into his wounds. He tried to suppress a grateful sigh of relief.

"With the proper time and mana reserves I could have you almost good as new in less than two days. As it is, I'm afraid all I can do is numb the pain a bit and get you some of your mobility back. Probably not enough to wield a sword properly, but-" She stopped abruptly, her eyes going wide.

"What is it?" The templar asked. He stared down at her with the same wide dark eyes she had found threatening only a few minutes ago, now they seemed so frightened, and Raen's heart swelled with unexpected pity. She showed him what looked like dark mottled bruising stretching out from his open wounds, and he knew; he had the corruption. His death was slowly creeping through his veins towards his heart.

"Don't tell Aveline." He said in a hoarse whisper, half pleading, and half commanding. She nodded once, glancing briefly at the tall red haired woman who was having a good natured chat with Porthos, the only member of the Hawke family she seemed to trust on sight. "Why did you offer to heal me anyway? I could have both you and your sister taken to the Circle where you would be forced to take your Harrowing, or possibly be made tranquil. Doesn't that frighten you?"

"You're not much of a threat right _now_ are you?" The woman snorted in a rather unladylike manner, "There is no point being scared of what may or may not happen to us in a tower in the middle of a lake hundreds of miles away when you slowing us down might get us all killed _right here_." She said briskly, heading back to join her siblings. The templar smiled at her retreating form and found himself wishing that his duty didn't demand her imprisonment. But magic is to serve man, and never rule over him; this was a mantra he believed fully and parroted as often as any of his fellows…yet, he looked at these wild Hawkes, these dangerous mages, standing and fighting with and for the people they love, and all he could see was a family, like any other. And with that thought came a twinge of sorrow and, for the first time, the slightest wavering of his faith.

The party spoke only in clipped tones and barked orders after that as they tried to carve their way through what seemed to be an unsettling amount of darkspawn. If she didn't know better, Raen could almost swear they were being surrounded, _herded_, by these monsters who are supposed to be mindless. Then they found themselves in a clearing being swarmed on all sides, but somehow they still managed to hold them off, keeping Leandra and the injured templar safe. Then the earth trembled at the pounding of large heavy foot-falls; it was an ten-foot tall behemoth with skin the color of fresh bruises and a mouth full of fangs dripping what looks like ropes of drool and a rather disgusting amount of blood. It bellowed in a deafening and disturbingly human sort of way and charged at their group in a blind fury, scattering them like leaves in the autumn wind. Well, _most_ of them.

None of them saw it coming. And how was that? That a single wet-sounding crunch could destroy eighteen years of soft smiles and rosy cheeks? No one was going to tell her this was fair. No one was going to convince her that this was just, or that only the good died young. Everything in the world simply stopped for an instant as Raen watched her younger sibling's body smash into the rocks and splinter, _splinter_, as if it were nothing more than a piece of dry wood. It doesn't matter that she was a mage, Bethany deserved better, she had _always_ deserved better, and Raen suddenly found that she was out of time to give it to her.

Everything dissolved into a flurry of clashing metal, flashes of magic and the general yelps and grunts of battle, but somehow, over all of it, Raen could still hear her mother crying. The ogre went down, along with the rest of its wretched brethren, but no one in the party could manage much joy at the sight of their enemies laying slain, they all just turned back to watch silently as a mother cradled her youngest child, smoothing the dark blood-soaked hair back from her forehead, begging her to wake up, as if she were still a little girl and there were chores around the farmhold that need doing. Raen knelt beside them, close to vomiting as she looked down on her little sister's once beautiful face. There was a dent the size of a man's hand in her skull oozing all manner of dark viscous fluids, one arm had been wrenched from its socket, a kneecap and a femur crushed and snapped respectively. She cataloged all of Bethany's injuries, a healer's habit, and a trick to keep herself sane. She studied her as if she were a patient that she failed to heal properly, if she looked hard enough, she'd do better next time. She could find a way to make it right, to make it… _'Why can't you fix this, Raen?'_ She struggled to distance herself from this moment, knowing that if she stopped long enough to feel it, the grief will rise up and destroy her as surely as any Blight.

_"Ashes we were and ashes we become, Maker give this young woman a place at your side." _Ironically, (or maybe it's the Masker's sense of humor again) the templar was the one who found the right words to stem her mother's tears, and even though she never had much faith in a god who abandoned the world and willed her to be born with a gift that would have her hunted for the rest of her life, she found comfort in the words of the chant. Her own words fell flat, as they had been more and more of late, and she couldn't help thinking that her father would have done better. Surely, Malcolm would have found a way to save them all. And then she heard the dragon roar.

For the first time in her life, Raen Hawke found herself at a complete loss for words. Honestly though, a sodding _high dragon_ just swooped out of the blue to save their asses by frying up a huge amount of darkspawn, and then promptly turned into a sarcastic and frankly crabby old woman. Who, coincidentally, might have the most impressive cleavage she had ever seen. It gave her hope that this might just be some strange and horrifying dream, and she will wake up tomorrow in her own bed to the familiar sounds of her mother and sister talking cheerfully in the kitchen as they made breakfast.

"That seems like a useful trick," Raen remarked casually, unsure of just how standoffish she should be toward this strange woman with her ancient golden eyes that gripped at her heart like talons, after all, she had no wish to become the next pile of ashes.

"And so it is," the woman answered in her gravely voice, a smirk curling on her full lips, "I could teach it to you, if you have a decade or two to spare." It seemed she had an appreciation for a sharp wit; Raen almost gave an audible sigh of relief.

"I think we might have to take a rain check on that." The eldest Hawke child answered smoothly.

As if on cue, Wesley crumpled to the ground, his body wracked with coughs. Raen could see the veins of his face that had already been taken by the corruption, black as night and as delicate in their crossing patterns as spider's silk. That, coupled with the sickly pallor of his skin, and the milky grayness that clouded his once-brown eyes left only one conclusion: he didn't have long. Aveline knelt next to him, a fresh wave of worry blooming across her freckled face, and Raen rushed to his side, healing magic already swelling in her hands. The redhead shot her a grateful look, but she said nothing for a moment, her large strong hands trembling as she smoothed Wesley's sweat-dampened hair back from his eyes.

"Be careful," She whispered tightly, "I think, no I'm almost certain…She's the Witch of the Wilds." The taint felt strange through Raen's healing magic- dark and syrupy- and it reacted like a thing alive, sending a stinging backlash at her through her own magic. It smarted and left and acrid taste in her mouth, but she could handle it, that was the least of her worries; she couldn't seem to find its source. She thought it must have come from where he was wounded, but now… And then Aveline's words sunk in. She paused what she was doing long enough to give her a curious glance.

"The Witch of the Wilds?" She asked.

"A Chastened legend- witches who steal children."

"Bah! As if I had nothing better to do." The witch scoffed, overhearing them despite the distance and their hushed tones.

"You _are_ an apostate, then?" The eldest Hawke inquired, her hands still absentmindedly trying to map the Templar's hurts.

"She's certainly not the Grand Cleric." Carver muttered under his breath. The mage found him with her hungry yellow eyes, a lean vicious smile playing about her lips, and for the first time in his life, Raen's little brother had the good sense to shut up.

"I am one who wields power," The woman shrugged as she turned back to the older of the siblings, "It is similar enough to yours to earn that title."

Raen vaguely remembered the stories she'd heard about Flemeth; she was a hedge-witch, an abomination, an ancient evil that had faded into myth; whoever or _what_ever this tall white-haired mage really was, she decided that she simply didn't care. She just wanted to get the fuck _out _of here with what little remained of her family intact, which was probably why she balked when the woman turned and started to leave.

"That's it?" Carver beat her to it, "You're just going to leave us here?" It seemed the common sense from earlier had worn off, and Raen was glad that piercing gaze was not leveled at her.

"And should I not?" Flemeth asked dryly, "I spotted a most curious sight: a mighty ogre vanquished! But now my curiosity is sated and you are safe, for the moment. My generosity is at an end."

"You couldn't just, I don't know…give us a lift somewhere?" Raen almost begged, "We're trying to get to Kirkwall.…You can't be wanting to stick around here much longer yourself, right? Even dragons aren't immune to darkspawn are they?" The old woman chuckled deep in the back of her throat.

"Indeed they are not, but I most likely would have perished long ago if that was the _only_ trick I had up my sleeve." The old woman paused for a moment, searching for something in the eldest Hawke sibling's face before turning away from them and muttering to herself, "Is it fate or chance? I can never decide.…" Raen glanced back at the others and shrugged her shoulders at their confusion, just as thrown off as the rest of them.

"Very well," Flemeth conceded, turning to face them once again, "I will get your group past the horde, if you will make a simple delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this for a Witch of the Wilds?"

As much as Raen distrusted this crazy old woman, and generally disliked the idea of helping her, because quite frankly, she _looked_ like the kind of person who would steal children away in the night and eat them. But beggars can't be choosers, and Maker's _breath_, she doubted that she'd ever been more desperate in her life. So she listened to the details involved with passing along an old and fairly rusty amulet to someone named Marethari.

"We don't have much choice." She sighed reluctantly, agreeing to the witch's strange request. Why an apostate as powerful as the legendary Flemeth would need someone like her to play delivery girl was beyond her, but once again, at this point, she just doesn't sodding give a nug's _ass_ about what the old mage's ulterior motives might be. Live now, deal with the consequences later.

"_We_ never do." The witch replied, a slightly predatory grin pulling at her full lips. "Before I take you anywhere however, there is another matter…." Her golden irises shifted to where the Templar lay on the ground moaning softly.

"_No_." The redhead refused, standing up to shield her husband, already knowing what the verdict would be, "You leave him alone." But it was already there in those vivid green eyes: resignation, _guilt_.

"What has been done to your man is in his blood already." The witch informed her with what seemed to be a genuine touch of compassion.

"You _lie_!" The swordswoman snarled, her voice thick with unshed tears.

"She's right, Aveline." Wesley called to her in a strangled whisper, "I can feel the corruption inside of me…I knew, when it happened…so much…_blood_…."

"Then, how long before you…?" The redhead barely managed to choke out.

"Not long now, if I am any judge." Flemeth whispered from behind them, and she suddenly seemed that much older, that much _sadder_.

"There _must_ be a way to help him!" Raen insisted.

"The only cure I know of it to become a Grey Warden." The witch replied matter-of-factly.

"And they all died at Ostagar." Aveline sighed bitterly, hanging her head in defeat.

"Not _all_," the woman smiled smugly to herself, "But the last are now sadly beyond your reach, though I doubt they would have been able to aid you much anyway."

"Aveline, listen to me-" The templar started, fear breaking through the courage in his voice.

"You _can't_ ask me this!" She cried, "I _won't_!"

"_Please_," Wesley whimpered, as his body started to spasm and jerk in pain, the taint in his blood beginning to slowly twist him into a monster, "The corruption is a slow death…I _can't_…." Aveline took a deep shuddering breath, and nodded once before kneeling back down by his side. The knight reached out one heavily gauntleted hand and pulled a single strand of his wife's fiery hair loose, curling it about his finger and trailing it across her cheek.

"Be strong, my love." He commanded her gently.

Raen felt a sudden urge to reach out to the soldier who had so recently become one of her companions, to tell her that she understood this exact kind of pain, but even after knowing Aveline for those scant few hours they'd spent running for their lives, she recognized the warrior's need to take this burden. She would give the weight of Wesley's life to no one but herself. The Hawkes retreated a step or two, to offer what little privacy could be had, and then came the grind of metal sliding against metal, and a wet-sounding grunt, followed by a relived sigh, followed by a dry sob. Raen turned to see her new comrade reach up with one fair-skinned hand to close the eyes of the man she loved.

"Without an end, there can be no peace." The abomination stated flatly, and whether or not she meant it to be, Raen found it oddly comforting.

They laid them out side by side; a sister and a husband, a daughter and a lover, a mage and a templar. They could not build a pyre, as was proper, for fear of attracting more darkspawn. There wasn't even time to bury them, to save the remnants of their loved ones from whatever other scavengers might be about. They could only fold their arms across their chests, and offer them empty words of love that could do nothing to save them from the cruelness of fate, or was it chance? If the witch didn't know, why should they?

Raen looked down at her baby sister, and saw that same scrap of blazing crimson cloth still tied about her neck; a desperate show of affection for her sixteenth birthday. Bethany had never scorned her sister's awkward gift; she had just smiled kindly, as she always did, and told her it was beautiful. The eldest Hawke child had never been good at directly handling emotions; she had always smirked and laughed, and danced away from them, even more so after their father died. She wished now that she had told her little sister just how much she was loved, _is_ loved. She hoped she knew it anyway, regardless of Raen's failings.

Raen knelt beside her and gently pulled the scarf from her sister's pale throat. She folded it carefully into a small square and tucked it securely into the folds of her leather jerkin, close to her heart; because that's what you do with the people you love. She twisted the thin silver ring around her finger and looked back at the others. Heart-sore and weary, they all looked to her for guidance she wasn't sure she could offer. Well, all but one, who merely uttered a single sentence before turning and heading further into the wilds.

"It gets _no_ easier; your struggles have only just begun." Raen placed a hand over Bethany's token and knew: it _never_ would.


	3. By Any Other Name

I SWEAR I have been working on this...really! This story simply refuses to be written in chronological order. Ugh. That, and the first 2 chapters needed an overhaul because I suddenly realized how much I hate writing things in present tense. My editor hasn't gotten her pretty little hands on this yet, so there might be some changes later.

ON WITH THE SHOW!

M as always, though this chapter is pretty safe, I think.

Bioware owes everything, including all of my free time.

P.S. Commander Shepard might also be partially to blame for the lateness of this update.

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><p>"Hawke? Hello, anybody home?" The dwarf at the head of the table called to her, shaking her from her thoughts.<p>

"Sorry Varric. It's still a little strange to hear people calling me that sometimes." The mage replied, rubbing sheepishly at the back of her head and grinning shyly.

"What, by your name?" The blond dwarf snorted in amusement.

"Father was always 'Hawke'." Carver interjected sourly before taking another swig of the Hanged Man's barely palatable ale. His sister shot him a withering glare that he blatantly ignored.

"I see," their newest companion continued, "and how exactly did this mantle end up passing to _you_, Serah, and not our poor severely undervalued Junior?"

"Maker, I hate you, Dwarf…." Carver muttered.

"It's all this one's fault really," Hawke explained, jerking a thumb at Aveline, who had been trying to stay out of what looked like the beginnings of another sibling row. "She started it back in Ferelden somewhere on the way to the docks in Gwaren, and it just stuck. She claims that calling someone by just their surname is a term of endearment among soldiers." She flashed the guardswoman a smile and a flirtatious wink.

"Shut up, Hawke." The redhead grumbled fondly, color rising in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sour pint she had been nursing.

"Aw, isn't that sweet?" Varric snickered, "But perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand?"

"Right. Yes. Planning and the like," Hawke agreed, thumping her mug down as if calling them to order. "I figure we should check out that Darktown clinic while there is still some light out, though I doubt it will do much to deter most of the gangs in the under city, but it can't hurt to try. Then, we head back up here after dark, hopefully with some maps or a new Warden friend in tow, and see what this Anso fellow Athenril was on about wants."

"Simple, I like it." Varric smirked.

"Yes, well, I'll leave all the plans that involve master manipulation to you, my _far _too charming dwarf." The mage countered dryly.

"I am wounded by that insinuation, Milady," came the rogue's reply, placing a broad gloved hand over his heart in mock hurt, "I am the very pinnacle of virtue."

"I'm sure the assembly is voting to make you a Paragon as we speak." Hawke quipped, causing the dwarf in question to give a hearty chuckle.

"Hawke, you're my kind of human." He told her with a rakish smile.

"Can we please just finish this blighted meeting and get a move on?" Carver griped.

"Right, back to the point," Hawke continued, rolling her eyes at her brother's usual pigheadedness, "Aveline, I think you should sit this one out."

"What?!" The guardswoman practically shouted, slamming her hands down on the table and surging to her feet. "Hawke, you can't be serious!"

"I'm completely serious." The mage said evenly, "You're about to take over the job of Captain of the Guard in a few weeks, and the last man who had your job got ousted for dealing with shady people. Look at me. Look at Carver. We've got 'shady business' written all over us like a dock worker with too much rouge. You're telling me it wouldn't look suspicious for you to be seen running around Darktown with a bunch of no-account refugees and their chatty dwarven sidekick?"

"Hey!" Varric objected.

"Not to mention that any job from Athenril is probably less than law-abiding." Hawke added, ignoring the dwarf's disgruntled look.

"I…suppose I can see your point." Aveline conceded, sighing heavily, "But I just don't like the thought of you wandering off by yourself."

"You sound like my mother." the apostate laughed, "I've got Porthos to take point, Varric to watch my back, and a pissy younger sibling to hack at everything in between; I'm hardly alone. Besides, I think that taking a rather conspicuous city guard into the home of a well known and, by the sound of it, well liked apostate will do anything, but _add_ to my list of problems. It might seem a tad threatening. You _do_ tend to come off as threatening sometimes you know, what with the blazing eyes and that one particular scowl…. Oh look, there it is now."

"_Hawke._" Aveline growled in warning.

"_Aveline._" She countered in a playfully grouchy voice before heaving an overly dramatic sigh, "Look, we both know that you are just going to go ask one of your adorably scruffy Fereldan refugee orphans to stalk me through the streets again, and I'll pretend that I don't notice them again, and then when nothing horrible happens to me you'll grumble about wasting your coin."

"I've never complained about that to you!" The redhead objected hotly.

"You aren't the only one with adorable refugee orphans." Varric grinned. The soon-to-be Guard Captain glowered around the room before turning on her heel and stomping towards the door.

"Fine," She snapped, "have it your way."

"Aveline, wait!" Hawke called out at the last moment, causing the tall ginger-haired Fereldan to glance back at her over her shoulder. "Thanks for looking out for me." The older woman gave her a tired smile that caused something close to sadness to flit across those brilliantly green eyes.

"Somebody has to, Hawke." She said as she turned away and continued down the steps to the main bar of the Hanged Man, "Maker knows you aren't likely to do it yourself."

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><p>Andraste's frilly lace knickers, did she hate going down into the under city. It was nothing, but twisting narrow streets flooded with wretched vagrants crouching in dank squalor, the inescapable stench of rotting…<em>something<em>, and of course, the ever-present knots of thugs fiddling nervously with their blades and sizing them up like hunks of meat_. _At least Lowtown had the _pretense_ of law enforcement. She and Carver had come down here a handful of times on jobs for Athenril, and somehow the place had never really grown any less foreboding and hopeless. Haggard eyes were always staring at them accusingly out of the gloom from the sallow faces of refugees who hadn't gotten her family's lucky break. Despite knowing that there was next to nothing she could have done to spare these people their fate, they served as a catalyst for memories of the screams rising with the smoke from Lothering, the subtle slump of defeat in her brother's shoulders, Bethany's dark eyes eternally frozen in the shock of death…. A twinge of guilt stirred in her gut, causing her to rub subconsciously at the strip of smooth red cloth knotted firmly to her belt loop.

"Remind me why we're here again?" Hawke groused under her breath, "I know there must have been a fantastically good reason, but the overabundance of decay and despair seems to have distracted me."

"This place is a pit." Her brother chimed in.

"Calm down ladies," Varric scolded lightly, earning him a glare from Carver, "You'll be singing a different tune when we're hauling riches out of the deep roads."

"True," Hawke admitted readily, "I'm sure the deep roads will make this sty seem as grand as Hightown, though I'm thinking the inhabitants down there might be friendlier."

"I think that's the place we're looking for." Carver interjected before the dwarf can fire off a witty retort.

Unlike the shabby lean-tos and scraps of cloth tied into flimsy overhangs that passed for 'shelter' down here, the Healer's clinic seemed like it might have actually been a respectable building at one time. Though the walls were still as grimy as anywhere in the under city, it was at least located near a ravine, one of Kirkwall's old quarries, that let in a bit of sunlight and the relief of fresh sea air. The greasy light of the twin lanterns outside the doors almost seemed like a lighthouse, beckoning the lost and the weary out of the dark storm of their wretched existence. Hawke found herself warming to this mage even before stepping through one of his peeling doorways.

Inside, they were met with the sight of a tall man in a tattered coat flanked on either side by a distressed couple as he loomed over an injured child. The boy's face was black with soot and his chest was unnaturally still, he must have gotten caught in a cave-in, but at the first flicker of the Healer's mana, Hawke had a hard time focusing on anything else.

The apostate's pale hands illuminated his careworn face as well as the still form in front of him with the blue-white fire of healing magic, and it raised every hair on her body like an electrical charge. His power skittered along her spine, thrumming against her own mana in a way she had not felt since her sister died. Hawke stumbled into Carver, dizzy with the rush of such a sudden inner torrent, she missed the worried glance he gave her before offering a steady arm. There were muffled voices, grateful…then deeper, angry, and she was suddenly aware of a sharp dwarven elbow digging into her thigh.

"Hawke," Varric hissed, "put your staff down and make nice already, we need this guy to help us before you try to burn him to a cinder." The rogue's voice snapped her back into focus, and Raen discovered that she had moved into a battle stance, a ball of lightening crackling in her fist, and the mage before her was poised much the same, with a plume of fire amassing around his fingers, ready to strike. She took a moment, staring him right in those bottomless brown eyes, trying to make sense of what just happened, when he straightened suddenly, his face gone ashen, as if he'd seen a ghost.

"_Amell_?" The mage asked, his voice raw with…something, "They told me you were…. How did you…?" A new thought seemed to cross his mind and his expression soured, "Did the Wardens send you to bring me back? I'm not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat." He crossed his arms and somehow appeared younger in his mulishness as he sighed to himself, "Poor Ser Pounce-A-Lot, he hated the Deep Roads."

"Hold a moment," Hawke said, finally relaxing and strapping her stave to her back, "You had a _cat_ named _Ser Pounce-A-Lot_ in the _Deep Roads_?"

"He was a _gift_." The Healer replied defensively, a bit of color rising in his cheeks, "A noble beast. Almost got ripped in half by a genlock once, swatted the bugger on the nose - drew blood too! The blighted Wardens said he made me too _soft. _I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthine." Hawke grinned at him reassuringly, and it seemed to embolden him, because he stepped closer to her and lightly snared a single lock of her dark hair between his long pale fingers. He seemed almost afraid, and something about the searching way he stared at her made it impossible for her to pull away.

"_Illuin_," He breathed the name in mingled grief and delight, "Where did you _go_?"

"Something you want to share with us, Hawke?" Varric cut in, and the mage in question quickly stepped away from this stranger with his haunted eyes and his gentle fingertips.

"My name is _Hawke_." She reiterated, to remind herself as well as him.

"H-hawke?" He parroted back at her, obviously confused. She nodded in affirmation.

"Amell was Mother's maiden name." Said Caver with a dawning comprehension.

"So you aren't- I'm mean you _can't_ be-" He stumbled for a moment, "Anders. My name is Anders, as I'm sure you've been told. I don't see any of you bleeding, so there is only one other thing you could want from me, and I already told you: I'm not going." He crossed his arms and stepped back, all business once more.

"Nobody's asking you to go anywhere." The youngest Hawke grunted in annoyance.

"We're trying to organize an expedition into the deep roads," His sister explained, "That's supposed to be an area of the Wardens' expertise, right? Any information you can give us could save peoples' lives and valuable time."

"I want nothing to do with it." The blond apostate stated bluntly. "I hate the blighted deep roads, You've got no idea what they're like- what I came through to get here. And this mire is a paradise on Thedas in comparison."

"I can understand that, but-" Hawke began, trying to keep the pleading tone in her voice to a minimum.

"No, you _really_ can't." Anders said vehemently, but after a brief pause, he seemed to reconsider. "Although...a favor for a favor. Does that sound like a fair deal?"

"It might, if I knew what I was agreeing to." Hawke answered carefully.

"It's a big step up from the flat out refusal of a few seconds ago." Varric reminded her pointedly.

"True enough," the dark haired mage conceded, "but I don't do anything involving children or animals. Let's have some details first, before I agree to filling the Knight Commander's smallclothes with itching powder, or something equally as stupid and deadly."

"I thought _everything_ we did was usually stupid and deadly?" Carver asked with a sneer.

"Perfect," Anders said with dry approval, "I was hoping that was more or less the case, since you're apparently set on planning a vacation to the worst possible void imaginable." He grinned coldly as he continued, "I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend, a mage - a prisoner in the wretched Gallows."

"No chance you just want us to deliver some flowers or something, is there?" Varric queried with a tight grimace. The blonde mage in question sent him a disapproving frown. The dwarf sighed deeply, "I thought not."

"Why do I sense the words 'jail break' heading in my direction?" Hawke groaned.

"His name is Karl Thekla," Anders began, his tone still decidedly not amused, "We'd been communicating through a maid in the Circle, but the letters suddenly stopped coming... The last thing he wrote to me was how the Knight Commander was turning the Circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, denied appearances at court...made tranquil for the slightest crimes!"

"Are you sure you want to make you friend an apostate?" Raen asked cautiously, "Freedom isn't as glamorous as circle mages tend to think."

"Try living without it sometime," the healer snapped in reply, "Andraste said that magic is to serve man, but I've never met a mage that wanted to rule anything. It goes against no law of the Maker for mages to live as free as other men."

"Enslaving mages is not the way to prevent the rise of another Imperium." the eldest Hawke nodded in agreement.

"Well," Anders faltered, finding himself pleasantly surprised, with a grin sneaking up on his face, "That's not normally the response I get. Perhaps we will work together better than I thought."

"You should've come to a dinner at our farmhold," Carver informed him, rolling his eyes, "Templars this, mage rights that, I never heard the end of it."

"How do you plan to break him out of the Circle if he won't or can't answer your letters?" Hawke asked incredulously, deciding to simply ignore her brother, "You won't even know where they're holding him, there's no way we could sweep the entire Gallows for one man."

"We're not seriously considering this are we?" Carver barked at her in displeasure, "You're a _mage_, Sister! The whole point of going on this bloody expedition was to get you _away_ from the blighted Templars- not skip blithely into a whole building full of them!"

"I'm hoping it won't come to that," the blonde man broke into the warrior's tirade, "I'm supposed to meet Karl in the Chantry tonight, but I'm willing to bet he won't be alone... Help me free him, and I'll give you the Grey Warden maps I have of the depths in this area."

"I still don't like this." Carver said peevishly.

"You don't like _anything_," Varric pointed out, "but I have to agree with Junior on this one Hawke, this stinks like a set up. On the other hand, those maps..."

"Are just what we're looking for." Raen finished for him.

"Then, you'll help?" Anders asked, hope softening his features slightly, "If there _are_ Templars there, I swear I will free him from them, no matter the cost!"

"Peace!" Hawke said, holding up her hands in supplication, but she paused before answering, weighing her options. She ran her fingers over the smooth fabric tied at her hip, _'What would Bethany do?'_ She twisted the silver ring around her middle finger and found her resolve. _'We are Hawkes, and we fix what has been broken.'_

"I would help any mage in such circumstances- maps or no." She proclaimed fiercely. The ragged man gave her a bright smile that crinkled the corners of his warm brown eyes and formed a pair of perfectly distracting dimples on either side of his mouth, it was almost like watching him shift into another person entirely, and Raen hoped the blood she felt rushing to her face wasn't as obvious as she feared.

"Meet me outside the Chantry after nightfall," He told her softly, turning to wave in a few new patients who had been hovering in the doorway, "No matter what happens, I promise we will all walk away free."

He walked away from them then, and Hawke watched him go, uncertain if she had just met the best man she would ever know, or an even bigger headache than her little brother.

* * *

><p>The human stared at the elf. The elf gazed back at the human coolly. Neither was quite certain what to make of the other. For his part, the one time slave was feeling a bit confused. The woman before him was indeed fine featured and lean, with pale skin that marked her as an obvious southerner, but her inky black hair was a tussled mess about her shoulders and her armor was little more than a light leather jerkin and a worn pair of leggings. Surely, <em>this<em> could not be the infamous Hawke he'd be told of.

Raen, on the other hand, was feeling more than a little bit anxious. The white haired elf had come stomping down the stairs imperiously, trailing after a dying man and looking rather pleased with himself. Then, when the Tevinter captain who had been threatening them grabbed him by the shoulder, he had spun around, quick as sin and calm as you please, and sunk his entire fist _through_ the offending brigand's chest. It had warped the Veil around him like a whirlpool of raw energy and caused her mana to kick into a kind of strange sensory overload. Everything had tasted a bit _purple_ for a second and when her senses had stopped reeling she had found her arms covered in goose pimples and an odd metallic tang lingering in her mouth.

Hawke's mind was scrambling to think of all the quickest escape routes from where she was standing. She wasn't sure what the elf had to do with any of this mess that Anso had gotten them into yet, but she was starting to think that it might be better to be alive than well informed. Her eyes flitted to the fresh pile of gore still cooling on the hard packed dirt of the alienage that had once been the captain's entrails, and she felt her fingers twitch for the stave still strapped to her back. Then again, her wit did tend to be quicker than her wisdom.

"So, shall we have a talk? Or perhaps a dance? Or are we simply going to gaze at each other longingly across the ballroom?" She asked before she had a chance to think better of it.

"No, I-" the elf blinked in surprise, and perhaps the tiniest bit of embarrassment. He cocked his he slightly in confusion.

_'Well, if that isn't as adorable as a mabari pup in an awkward sweater,'_ Hawke thought to herself, fighting down a smile that was growing increasingly smug.

"I would speak with Hawke." the elf frowned at her, having apparently decided that he was being mocked, which was at least half true. His gaze shifted past her to where Carver stood, his silence expectant.

"I believe you might actually need to start _talking_ in order to converse with someone." the Ferelden woman informed him, still grinning at him impishly.

"Then, _you_ are Hawke?" He asked, sounding skeptical. When a shrug of her shoulders and a widening smirk were all the reply he received, he seemed to quickly change tactics, "I apologize, I did not think you would be so..."

"Gorgeous?" Hawke supplied.

"Awe-inspiring?" Varric suggested.

"Dirty." Carver stated.

"Woof!" Porthos agreed.

"Traitor." Hawke accused the dog under her breath, though she sounded more amused than anything. Her only response was a pleased bark and a swipe of tongue at her fingers. The elf sighed in exasperation.

"I merely meant to state that I had no idea the group of hunters I asked Anso to divert would end up being so..._numerous_." The man rumbled, somehow managing to sound frustrated and apologetic at once.

"Then those men were after you?" Hawke asked, not sounding all that surprised.

"Correct," The elf answered curtly, "I am Fenris. The men you encountered were Imperial Bounty Hunters, seeking to reclaim a magister's lost property, namely myself." He rolled his eyes and curled his lip in obvious disgust. "They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I found I could not face them alone. Luckily, Anso chose wisely."

"That seems like a lot of effort to find one slave." Hawke said carefully, unsure of how the elf might react to prying.

"Yes." He replied briskly.

"...but you're no ordinary slave." She guessed, trying to coax him into an elaboration.

"Yes." He agreed once more.

"Does it have something to do with those markings?" She tried a third time, gesturing to the elegant whorls of white faintly flickering tattoos that seemed to curl over every area of his visible skin.

"Yes..." The white haired man repeated, his voice thick with long held resentment.

"Are you ever going to answer any of these questions with more than a single word?" The woman groused.

"Possibly." The elf told her, the faintest trace of mirth evident in his voice and the ghost of a smirk briefly tugging at his lips. Raen felt like the temperature outside must have mysteriously risen at least ten degrees in the last few seconds.

"I must appear..._strange_ to you." Fenris continued, his tone suddenly sounding dejected, "I did not receive these markings by choice. Even so, they have served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave."

"If you couldn't face them, why not just run?" She asked.

"There comes a time when you must stop running," He said, a fierceness building in his voice, "When you turn and face the tiger."

"A courageous, if reckless sentiment," She smiled thinly at him, "...so, everything Anso told us was a lie?"

"Not _everything_," He assured her, "your employer was simply not who you believed." She nodded briskly in acceptance.

"Well, if those men were really trying to recapture you, I'm glad I could help." Hawke said with a slight air of finality, turning towards the stairs that led back up into Lowtown.

"Another charity job? Wonderful." The burly youth behind her complained loudly as he made to follow.

"W-wait!" the elf called after them in obvious desperation, "There's more- I believe my former master accompanied them to the city. I need your help to catch him before he flees. You will be compensated- I swear it."

"I get the distinct feeling you want to do a bit more than have a friendly chat with this Magister of yours." Hawke commented dryly.

"Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones and has sent so many hunters that I have lost count. And before _that_, he kept me on a leash like a Qunari mage- a personal pet to mock Qunari customs. So _yes_, I intend to more than just _talk_." Fenris snarled.

Raen blinked at the elf, at the rage and pride twisting the handsome features of his face, at the hate and anxiety shadowing those wide forest colored eyes, at the tension straining in every one of his lean muscles, at the white brands quietly humming to her from every inch of visible skin, She wondered what kind of hell a person had to endure to look like that...she wondered if she really wanted to find out. Still, it seemed like a good cause, if she'd ever heard one. Thedas was certainly not going to mourn the loss of one more sadistic magister.

"What would you have of me?" She sighed in good humored resignation.

"Undoubtedly, his minions have something about them that will give us a clue as to his whereabouts. Then..." The elf trailed off, letting his dark glower speak for him. Hawke almost felt bad for the person who was going to end up on the receiving end of that scowl and all the physical retribution that came with it. _Almost_. They searched the bodies of the dead men and discovered that the Magister was holed up in a Hightown mansion, awaiting the arrival of his precious elvhen package.

Fenris set off at a brisk pace towards their destination, full of purpose, and despite her best efforts, Raen found it difficult not to blatantly leer at the white haired man as he led them up to the richest neighborhood in town. The stairs gave her a particularly nice few of the way each and every one of the lean muscles in his back and thighs worked together in sinuous perfection. She stifled a groan. The man apparently had no consideration for the well being of the female population when he'd chosen those leggings.

Her current flustered state drew Raen's thoughts back to encounter with Anders earlier that day, of his gentle fingers and his deep brown eyes- ready to drown her in their secrets, in their sorrows. How his face lit up like a little boy when he smiled. She had been instantly drawn to him. And _that _was a bad, bad, _very_ bad thing. She had enough to contend with just trying to keep her family afloat without having to deal with getting all calf-eyed over scruffy selfless dimpled apostates... or lithe angry glow-in-the-dark elves for that matter.

Hawke was used to getting dragged into other people's messes on a daily basis, but to have two handsome men stir up her mana and her sympathy in one day was something new. She wasn't sure if this was the Maker taking pity on her and providing something nice to ogle as she went around patching up people's lives, or if the mage and the elf were part of some elaborate plot to drive her as crazy as everyone else in Krikwall. Between the two of them, she got a twitchy feeling, like something big was about to begin...and she wasn't all that sure she wanted to be a part of it.

Raen suddenly remembered a pair of dark full lips quirking slightly and a cold golden gaze piercing her to the core. She recalled the heavy cryptic words left handing in the air over the bodies of a mage, a Templar, and a few dozen darkspawn. She didn't have a choice did she? She'd _never_ had a choice.


	4. Three of a Kind

AN: UGH. I'll fix it later.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All hail Bioware, creators of the universe! Maker be praised!

* * *

><p>Fenris was looking at her as if she was a particularly smelly cowpat that had gotten stuck to the sole of his foot, or perhaps more precisely, like a cowpat suck to his foot who had just told him that his mother frequented the Blooming Rose. It also reminded her of Carver's expression when she...well, pretty much all the time really. In fact, it was so similar to that special brand of accusatory disgust that her younger sibling had been nursing for nearly twenty years that Raen wondered if the elf had somehow managed to do a quick study of it while they had been fighting their way through the Magister's slew of demons and booby traps. If that was the case, the likeness was truly stunning; she didn't know whether to feel exasperated or impressed.<p>

"So, I take it that angry diatribe about magic was aimed in my direction?" She sighed, hoping against hope that this wouldn't end in bloodshed. Saying that the elf was a formidable swordsman was like saying that Varric occasionally exaggerated the truth, and Hawke really didn't want to find out who would win if they had to go head to head.

"If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with _me_." Carver growled at the other warrior, puffing himself up like a disgruntled alley cat. The look Hawke gave him was one of startled incredulity.

"What?" He barked at her in annoyance.

"Nothing...I guess I was just expecting you to ask if you two could form some kind of club or something." She stated dryly.

"They could hold scowling competitions and polish their swords together by candlelight?" Varric suggested helpfully.

"Eugh!" The younger Hawke protested loudly.

"All while boisterously debating exactly what kind of demon will no doubt be possessing me, and which one of them gets the honor of either running to the Templars or shortening me by a head." The apostate continued, her humor turning cold.

"Is there a demon of annoyance?" Her brother snapped, "That isn't fair and you know it. I'm not _that_ much of an ass- you're my sister."

"And I couldn't get out of it if I wanted to!" She laughed, playfully slapping him on the back.

"What manner of mage _are_ you?" The elf asked, one dark brow raised in bewilderment.

"The snarking kind." Varric informed him cheekily, to which the mage in question gave him an approving grin.

"_Obviously_." Fenris groaned in growing exasperation.

"Did you think I would just _tell_ you, and spoil all the fun?" the Ferelden quipped at him, batting her eyelashes coquettishly. The white haired elf heaved a sigh of defeat.

"I imagine I appear ungrateful," He began, not sounding particularly sorry, or for that matter, appreciative.

"Just a bit." The apostate cut in, her smile going cold again.

"I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth." He continued, sincerity rumbling through the deliciously rough baritone of his voice. Maker's _breath_, she was in so much trouble. "I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it."

Hawke briefly studied the small bag of coins that had been dropped into her palm before glancing back up at the Tevinter elf, one eyebrow arched in puzzlement. There couldn't be more than a hundred silvers in here, and the man had let them loot the manor as well...just what was he planning on living off of? Spite? She sighed wearily. This was the problem with taking jobs from poor people.

"Never mind the debt," She said briskly, tossing the purse back to him, "Don't send the Templars after me and we'll call it even. I am a mage, I don't plan on _not_ being one any time soon, and I occasionally work with other members of my so called 'wretched brethren' as well. I'm not going to put them in danger to satisfy whatever code of honor you've made up for yourself. And I _do_ try to avoid working with people who hate me, purely on principle. Especially ones who punch people through the chest; I like all of my organs right where they are, thanks."

"I'm not blind," The elf insisted, sounding irritated, "I know magic has it's uses, and there are undoubtedly mages with good intentions. Perhaps, you are one of them. You are not Danarius, and I...do not _hate_ you..._yet_."

"You were doing a pretty good impression of _extreme_ distaste a few moments ago," Hawke reminded him, "or is that just the expression people wear in Tevinter when they want to put someone at ease?"

"I escaped a land of dark magic and slavery, only to have it hunt me at every turn...is it truly unreasonable that I do not freely give my trust to strangers? Should I not be wary of those who wield magic after all it has done to my homeland, my race, and myself?" Fenris glared at her, his face a mix of bitterness and pride, "I will not lie- I dislike the thought of working with mages. But I would prefer _that_ displeasure to feeling indebted to one for the rest of my life. I will watch you and your companions carefully if we travel together...I can promise no more."

Raen studied him skeptically, weighing the truth in his words against the alarms ringing in the back of her head telling her what a dumb idea it was to drag around a spiky mage-hating elf when she was just one song and dance away from being thrown in the Gallows.

"And the Templars?" She asked him evenly.

"They will not hear of you from me." He promised solemnly.

"Well, why not? I'm sure I've agreed to something stupider than this at some point in my life." Hawke shrugged at the elf, flashing him a smile that didn't quiet mask all of her anxiety. "However, if you _do_ suddenly feel the urge to see me locked up in the Circle with that charming little sunburst on my head... I ask you to think of Varric. If you sell me out to our friendly neighborhood zealots, he'd have to go through all the tedious business of staging a daring rescue or, Maker forbid, he'd have to try to find someone else crazy enough to be his business partner."

"I'm tearing up just thinking about it." The dwarf said sarcastically, though the tight expression on his face belied his apathy.

"And here I was expecting you to tell me about your twelve starving children, your crippled husband, and your blind maiden aunt." The elf stated flatly, his face a mask of calm. There was a brief moment of silence, before Hawke gave a burst of surprised laughter.

"Oh, well played, Serah! You'll do just fine." She held out a hand to him, still chuckling lightly, "Welcome to the team, Fenris."

He looked at her outstretched palm like it might bite his arm off. It was only slightly less offensive than the previous cowpat expression. Raen was getting a little annoyed with the swinging door of his emotions when she noticed a flicker of pale light twitch across his tan skin, and remembered the first and most obvious of the elf's oddities.

"Right. The markings, sorry." She said, perhaps a bit more gently than she really needed to, while withdrawing her hand. "They make touching...uncomfortable?"

"To put it lightly." Fenris bit out tersely, "They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power Danarius required of his '_pet'_."

"Is that why he wants you back so badly?" She frowned in unwitting concern.

"He doesn't want _me_ at all, just the markings on my skin." The elf spat with swelling ire, "Now, he would see his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse."

"Now, that _would_ be a shame," The human smirked despite herself, "What a waste of a perfectly handsome elf."

Fenris _laughed_. A brief little one-two-three chuckle that rent the night like a sudden bolt of lightening. It was sweet and deep and as uncomfortable as Aveline in a tight dress, and Raen was mortified by just how many humiliating things she was suddenly prepared to do if it meant being granted a repeat performance. It was over far too soon, and it was hard to tell exactly who was the most astonished that it had happened at all. The silence left in it's wake was deafening.

"Well, that was...something." Varric supplied, "And I hate to break up a party when its clear that everyone is having such a good time, but I'm afraid we have a previous engagement...Hawke?"

"Ah, right!" The apostate exclaimed, "To the Chanrty! ...the fun never ends."

"Not with you in charge." Her brother grumbled dourly.

The trio began walking past the elf without another word, heading toward the stairs that led to their next clandestine meeting. Standing unnoticed in the shadow of his former master's mansion, Fenris shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to another, uncertain if he was meant to follow.

"Do you-," he began, clearing his throat and not meeting the three sets of eyes that turned back to look at him, "Would you have me accompany you?" Hawke seemed surprised, regardless of their newly struck deal.

"That depends on if you'd be interested in springing a mage from Templar custody." She said wryly, though her expression seemed impassive, despite the thin smirk curling one corner of her lips. He had a suspicion that many doubts and truths often found themselves being obscured by that smile.

"I gave my word to assist you when asked." Fenris reminded her with an expression that could have curdled milk.

"That's not the way this works." Hake said seriously, shaking her head. "I tell you what the job is, and you make up your mind whether or not you feel like helping. Go or stay, I won't hold your choice against you. This business is risky enough without having to worry about my comrades in arms suddenly deciding they'd like to go home...or maybe switch sides?" The former slave felt his hackles rise at the implication.

"If this is some kind of test-" He bit out savagely.

"It's not." She insisted, "And even if it was, would that be so outrageous? You aren't the only one who's been hunted here. Earning trust goes both ways."

"Very well." He sneered at her, "If my word is insufficient, I will prove my conviction is genuine. I will help you free this..._mage_."

"Glad to hear it!" the apostate smirked at him before turning and continuing towards the Chantry.

"Are you sure that was a good idea, Hawke?" Varric muttered to her under his breath, sounding strangely nervous about the angry white haired elf that was now trailing behind them like a particularly foreboding storm cloud.

"Honestly, Varric," She whispered back with an air of weary resignation, "I'm not too sure about any of the choices I've made in the last few hours. Do you think Corff might have added something 'special' to my ale today? I thought it tasted a bit more like _rat_ than usual..."

"Ancestors preserve us...we're doomed," The dwarf groaned, burying his face in one hand.

* * *

><p>Anders' hands were shaking. The bloody knife he held trembled as he wiped it off on scrap of cloth from one of the numerous pouches on his belt. It was not the first time a former lover of his had met their untimely end, it wasn't even the first time he'd been forced to take a friend's life with his own hands...but it was the first time he'd been called on to deal with the grief and guilt of both situations at once.<p>

Sweet solemn Karl, with his patient hands and his warm smiles... He had been so much older than Anders, wiser, more _experienced_, if you will, and it was his steady gentleness that had tempered the blond mage's selfish fury at his lot in life...for a while at least. It hadn't been love exactly, but it was the first time since the Templars had dragged him from his home that Anders had felt there might be something worth living for, other than simply trying to spite authority, of course.

Yet, here he was, one step away from being an abomination, his resentment set at a constant boil beneath his skin. Kindness, love, friendship...it hadn't been enough to save himself...or Karl. He could feel the vacant eyes of the dead mage watching him, accusing him. _'You were too slow, too late, too weak._' They taunted him. Even the corpses of the Templars seemed to be whispering, _'Monster! Freak! Maleficar!'_ from every corner of the Chantry. The cold gilded face of the Maker's bride was frowning at him from her golden plinth, the pristine walls seemed to scorn his filthy mage self, it felt as if the very stone of this building abhorred his existence.

It was getting hard to breathe, Justice stirred at the back of his mind, a distant roar of indignation. He needed to get out of here- needed to escape. He hastened his steps towards the exit when a woman's voice called out to him.

"Wait!" He turned back to the apostate who had agreed to help him, the woman who bore the face of a ghost. Her eyes, her hair, even her skin was a darker shade than he remembered, but the shape of her face, her mouth, the feel of her magic all echoed that of the girl he had known back at the Circle in Ferelden. She was cradling Karl's lifeless body in her arms, her storm gray eyes wide and pleading. "Help me lift him."

With a few fumbled movements they managed to move the remains of his friend onto one of the beds the priests kept to service the weary and penitent that crawled through their doors at odd hours of the night, seeking refuge. Hawke folded the tranquil mage's arms across his chest, obscuring most of the dark telling stain seeping down the front of his green robes. Then, she reach up with one hand and gently pressed his eyes closed. Anders felt a great swell of gratitude rising up in his chest, Karl looked so peaceful this way...almost as if he was merely sleeping and not..._gone_.

He'd never seen his friend like this. 'Relationships' in the Circle didn't have mornings after. Sure, they'd had conversations, they had been colleagues, to some extent, but there had never been any kind of slow budding romance between them building up to something more. All they'd ever shared were some lewd comments, followed soon after by heated snogging whenever the Templars' backs were turned, which hastily led to frenzied trysts in whatever dark corner they could find. It wasn't meant for holding on to. You had to learn to walk away. Quickly. And you never looked back.

"I know I might not be the most qualified person to ask this, " Hawke spoke again, her voice startling him with it's solemnity, "but please, Maker, give this man a place at your side. Grant him the freedom in death that he sought in his life...and may he find peace with it. Do not let the sins we committed in your house reflect harshly in his judgment. So let it be." She gave Anders an expectant glance.

"I'm sorry, Karl. Here I am, breaking promises to you all over again, " He managed to choke out, "but I swear that I'm going to do _everything_ in my power to ensure this never happens again, to _anyone_."

"Bold words." the spiky looking elf Hawke had showed up with grunted in obvious disdain.

"Not here, Fenris." Hawke said sharply, before turning her attention back to the blond mage, "We should leave. Back to your clinic? I think a _discussion_ is in order."

"I-" the apostate floundered, "Yes, of course."

* * *

><p>Hawke <em>slapped<em> him. Full in the face and hard enough that he could taste blood; for the first time in his life, Anders found himself at a complete loss for words. They had barely made in ten steps into his clinic back in Darktown, and he had been in the process of turning around to try and defend his 'situation' with Justice when the dark haired apostate had hauled off and tried to smack his head clean from his shoulders, as if he was some unfaithful spouse who had come home late smelling of cheap booze and some other woman's perfume.

"Andraste's great flaming arse- _Ow!_" He complained hotly, rubbing his cheek tenderly and using a brief flicker of healing power to stop any swelling. "Is _this_ your idea of a 'discussion'?!"

"Carver, wait outside with Porthos." She barked at the tall dark haired youth behind her.

"Right, because I'm really going to stand outside in the alley with the dog like an idiot while you make goo-goo eyes at some bloody abomi-"

"**Now**." Hawke cut him off.

"Tch, _fine_." Carver grunted, sounding even more irritated than normal, "Don't come crying to me when the blood mage tries to eat your liver...or whatever they do to people."

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks." She called to him as he slunk out the door with the mabari at his heels. "Varric, you should probably get going, too. I'll see you at the Hanged Man tomorrow."

"You sure, Hawke?" He asked, "Me and Bianca are a bit more magic proof than Junior... could come in handy."

"I'll be fine, Varric. " She assured him, "Porthos wouldn't have left if I was in any real danger." The dwarf didn't look like he completely bought what she was selling, but he merely shrugged, patted her on the elbow, and ambled towards the door after Hawke's brother.

"Fenris," She addressed the pale haired warrior scowling at her side, "Consider you debt repaid. If you're still interested in work you can meet with us tomorrow at the Hanged Man in Lowtown." The elf's expression soured in obvious distaste, though Anders was uncertain if it was because he was worried for Hawke's safety, as the others were, or if he merely disliked the thought of a pair of mages left on their own to plot the end of the world, or some such thing; he had been fairly transparent regarding his views on mage freedoms during their trek back from Hightown.

"As you wish." Fenris said curtly, turning on his heel and walking towards the exit to Darktown with long purposeful strides. He paused for a moment at in the doorway, as if struggling with something. "I agree with your brother and the dwarf," He said finally, pointedly not looking back over his shoulder, "this course of action seems ill advised. Such a man is not to be trusted."

"Was that _concern_ I heard in your voice, Fenris? For little old magey me?" She asked in mock surprise, turning half way around to shoot the elf a disarming grin. "Scandalous!"

Fenris grunted in annoyance. Hawke laughed. Anders was more than a little baffled at the exchange, and perhaps even the tiniest bit jealous, which was about as insane as it was impossible. People with Fade spirits living in their heads lost the right to be attracted to anyone, since there was no way in Thedas to give _that_ story a happy ending.

Not that that he found Hawke attractive or anything, I mean, the woman had hit him in the face. His _face_! Honestly, who would care about long legs and generous hips, or the flash of defiance in a pair of deep stormy eyes when the owner of those attributes had just physically assaulted you for no apparent reason? A madman, that's who.

"Now that I've got you all to myself, let me be perfectly clear." She said sharply as she turned back to him, "If you _ever_ put my family or my friends in danger again because of something you conveniently forgot to mention, like the fact that you are an abomination, I _will_ kill you."

"As if sneaking into the Chantry to free a mage _wasn't_ putting them in danger?" He snarled back at her, feeling the Fade spirit's indignation flare at being taken for a demon.

"I don't like surprises," Hawke informed him evenly, her eyes flinty and cold. "We stuck our necks out for you and your 'condition' could have made you turn on us at any moment- we deserved to know!"

"It isn't like that!" He protested hotly, "Justice isn't a demon!"

"Even if he wasn't one before, what is he now? Benign? Safe? Merciful?" Hawke scoffed at him, "Spirits don't understand our world any more than we understand theirs. He lashes out in ignorance and fear, and he wields enough power through you to be considered a serious threat. He shouldn't even _be_ here. What were you thinking when you summoned him?!"

"He was going to die." Anders told her quietly, the anger seeping from him as he remembered. "He was a spirit of Justice, pulled outside the fade and trapped within the corpse of a Warden named Kristoff. He didn't even know how he'd gotten there, let alone how to return home. We fought together, helped each other, became comrades, friends even, but... The body he lived in was still mortal and decaying. He didn't know what to do, none of us did. He was my friend, and he was dying."

Her face was like a pool of clear spring water, reflecting all of his heartache and regret ever since his joining with Justice as if she were a bottomless well of empathy, but her voice was firm when she spoke, her tone unforgiving. "All things end, Anders. All things die. As a healer, you should know that."

"So, we should just _let_ them?" He snapped, incredulous and slightly outraged with her apathy. "We should do nothing when we see that a person is suffering?"

"I never said that," She sighed, suddenly sounding tired, "We just...need to know that not everyone can be saved. Some lost causes are truly lost. Sometimes its better to let go of a thing...or a person...rather than destroying the world trying to hold on to them."

"Speaking from personal experience, are we?" He jabbed at her. Her answering smile reminded him of an open wound, and he suddenly felt like a complete ass. She put a hand on his shoulder and sighed dramatically.

"What am I going to do with you?" This time her smile was a lot smaller, and much more genuine, "Don't they teach all you good little Circle mages not to play around with the big bad Fade spirits?"

"They do," He smirked back at her, "but I'm afraid I was always a bit rubbish at following the rules."

"A born rebel, are we?" Hawke asked, her grin widening with every word.

"Well, I've always heard that ladies love a bad boy and, as I've yet to find any evidence to the contrary, I decided to stick with it." He told her wistfully, it felt so good to act like himself again that he couldn't seem to help himself. She laughed at his rather feeble attempt at being charming, which he found entirely too gratifying for Justice not grumble in the back of his mind about skirt chasing.

"Can you control him?" She asked, her voice gentle, the levity from earlier leaving her face.

"It's not like that...exactly." Anders fumbled awkwardly, unsure how to explain because he'd never tried to before, "We're the same person now...I think. I don't think Justice could just switch to another body now or something; we share thoughts, memories, emotions... Which is were the problem truly lies, I suppose. We planned to work together to help free mages everywhere, but... When I see mages being abused by Templars, being feared and hated for no reason beyond the way the Maker made them, things that have always made me angry... suddenly Justice is there. Enraged, and determined that wrongs be set right. It's a bit like suddenly developing a _very_ nasty temper."

"You didn't actually answer my question," Hawke pointed out, not even cracking a smile at his wit, "Can you _control_ it?" He looked down at his feet, and the long silence was answer enough.

"No." Anders finally whispered, "When it happens...when he comes out like that, he's not Justice anymore. He's a force of vengeance. And he has no grasp of mercy." He raised his gaze to met her eyes, and his voice was thick with regret, with shame. "It's like a madness, a frenzy. I only find out after what I might have done."

"Can I help you?" It's the last question he expected from her, and it nearly brought him to his knees in gratitude and tears; because someone knew. _Finally_ someone else knew about Justice, and she didn't fear him or hate him, she just stood there looking slightly sad, asking if she could help. _Maker_.

"I...don't think so." He responded brokenly. She nodded in acceptance.

"What are you going to do now?" Hawke asked seriously, her expression carefully neutral.

"I'd like to stay in Kirkwall." He said hesitantly, "I want to help the refugees from the Blight as much as I can; I'm still a Warden...sort of. I feel like I owe it to them. And I want to help the mages here too, of course."

"By killing more Templars?" She queried dubiously.

"Not if I can help it," He replied, trying his best to sound earnest. It was mostly true, anyway. She nodded once again.

"Alright," She said, reaching out her hand, "I can't really argue with someone trying to make this place less of a shit hole. Just promise me that you'll remember what I said, about knowing when to let something go. A Fade spirit won't understand that, but I know you still do."

"And if I can't let go?" Anders asked quietly. "If I can't stop?"

"Then I'll stop you." She said fiercely, the spark returning to her eyes. He took her hand and shook it.

"Good."

She turned and headed towards the door without a backwards glance.

"Hawke!" He called out to her, "You forgot these. Warden maps of the depths in this area; they're yours...as am I, if you should need me for anything."

"Now now, Anders," She scolded him playfully as she walked backwards towards the exit with the maps in hand, "We've only just met. It will take me some time to figure out whether I _need_ you or not."

There was a very loud male groan form just beyond the door.

"If you didn't want to hear, you shouldn't have been eavesdropping, Brother dearest!" She called out sweetly.

"But _I_ wanted to hear!" Came a voice that was obviously trying very hard not to laugh.

"I thought I told you to go home, Varric!" She exclaimed, somehow sounding both exasperated and amused.

"What are you gonna do, fire me?" the dwarf snorted.

"The Hanged Man, right?" Anders interjected as she stepped out into the alley.

"Right!" Hawke replied, throwing him a grin as she walked out the door.

The runaway mage found himself smiling and strangely buoyant in her wake. It was a feeling he had been experiencing less and less since joining with Justice. She had slapped him in the face and left him laughing, how did that even work? The dark haired apostate had to be the strangest woman he'd ever met. And he liked that. It gave him a sense of humanity, of _rightness_, like maybe it was destiny that had brought him to Kirkwall. It was known as the city of chains, and they were chains he planned on breaking. He could save his fellow mages, it could all start here... And maybe, with someone like Hawke around, there'd be someone left to save him, too.


	5. Windows

AN: From here on out, the chapters might be shorter, but hopefully that means I will be able to write them faster! ...maybe. Also, I seem to have lost my proof reader, so I apologize for any spelling errors.

Disclaimer: I don't own. You don't sue.

* * *

><p>It had been nearly a month since Fenris had joined up with Hawke's ragtag group of misfits to 'right the wrongs of fair Kirkwall', as the dwarf liked to put it. In that time he'd found himself fighting alongside a blood mage who possessed more tattoos than common sense, a whiny abomination who seemed to think the world owed him something, a lascivious pirate who leered at him in a way that made him fairly uncomfortable, and- of all things- the captain of the guard. Stranger still was the realization that he didn't regret much of that time. He got on well with Aveline and Varric, and even Isabela for the most part. He could usually tolerate Carver, and he liked Hawke.<p>

And that was by far that strangest part of all: he _liked _Hawke. It was true that she was an apostate, and he struggled to forgive her for it every day, though he wasn't sure if he should. She might be bright eyed and playful, with an annoyingly infectious smile, but that didn't mean she wasn't dangerous. She had a bad habit of ending up suck in the middle of somebody else's mess because she was incapable of leaving well enough alone when it seemed like someone needed help, which he found admirable, if a bit tiresome. And she must have made some kind of pact with the pirate woman to try and tease him into an early grave, which he found confusing and not nearly as annoying as he probably should have. It didn't change the fact the Hawke was a mage, and not to be trusted. All it did was make him wish that she wasn't one.

It was true that she never asked him to help with jobs that sounded like they'd be helping mages, even though he knew she did, and she never berated him for his opinions even though they differed from her own, but it wasn't enough. It could never be enough. No matter how strong she was, no matter how careful, Hawke would always be a target for demons. One bad day, one moment of despair, one flick of her knife was all it would take to make her the same as Anders or Merrill; to prove that every mage was no better than a Magister. He hoped that day would never come, but years of experience amongst the mages of Tevinter had taught him otherwise. Hawke would fall someday, and all Fenris could do was pray that he wouldn't be around to see it.

These were the thoughts that chose to plague him on this particular night as he squatted in the ruin of his former master's manor (though according to some dirt Varric had pulled up, the place had originally belonged to a Tevinter merchant who had mysteriously vanished). Perhaps he should simply leave Krikwall, there was nothing in particular to keep him there, except a flimsy promise to assist an apostate on some foolish endeavor to the deep roads. He knew Hawke wouldn't hold it against him if he left, which was just one more reason he liked her; she understood what it was like to live on the run. He sighed; when had he become such a soft touch?

There was a knock on his door. That he had a caller at this time of night (or at all) would have been surprise enough, but the fact that his visitor was the mage he had been thinking of not moments before was enough to leave him speechless. She must have read his silence as disapproval because she gave him a sheepish grin and held out a bottle of wine.

"I come in peace!" She declared with a hint of uncertainty floating in her voice. He raised an eyebrow at her, but stepped away from the door to let her pass. She stepped inside, promptly tripped over a pile of rubble, and cursed loudly as she tried to right herself.

"What are you doing here, Hawke?" He asked, fighting down the urge to laugh at her clumsiness.

"Breaking my toes apparently," She grumbled, "Do you _ever_ clean in here?"

"Why would I?" He replied with the slightest curl of a grin, "It seems to be an excellent deterrent for mages." She rolled her eyes at him.

"Careful, Fenris," the apostate warned, "I think Varric's bad sense of humor is rubbing off on you." The elf snorted.

"But not _yours_, surely."

"That would require me admitting that my jokes are _bad_," Hawke said, clearly scandalized.

"Yes." Came Fenris' immediate reply as he led them up the stairs. The mage huffed in indignation as they entered his room and sat down near the fire.

"I'll have you know that my sense of humor is like a fine wine; aged to perfection," The Ferelden told him haughtily, gesturing to the bottle in her hand before pulling out the stopper with her teeth. She took a deep pull and promptly began sputtering and choking on the rich red liquid.

"Point taken." The elf commented drily.

"Maker's _breath_, that's strong!" Hawke gasped. "I am _never_ asking Isabela to help me pick a decent label again."

They sat together for a time, talking about nothing in particular, passing the wine back and forth. He cracked open a bottle of the Aggregio Pavali Danarius had left behind, which wound up smashed against the far wall, making the mage jump. She told him of Ferelden, of cold spring rain and the thick coat of heather that grew along the low hills of the Bannorn. He hinted at Seheron, it's lush jungle and the sounds of a thousand varieties of life vying for survival. He pried. She didn't. When they both reached the pleasant glow of mild inebriation, Hawke finally got around to the reason for her impromptu visit.

"I came to apologize." She told him quietly, the usual laughter gone from her face.

"For what?" He asked, frowning in confusion.

"When we were all out looking for that mage boy, Feynriel, and we ran into that slaver who was selling magelings to the Imperium…" She trailed off, her head lowered in shame.

"What of it?" He all but snapped at her, his frown deepening to a scowl. Hawke had let the boy join the Dalish and become an apostate. He hadn't been there, so there wasn't anything he could have done to dissuade her, but it was a sore point between them even so.

"You stuck your hand into his chest, Fenris." Her voice sounded sad, with no trace of accusation. "You _tortured_ him…and you did it because I asked you to." Her eyes were like a winter sky, heavy with regret. His master had had grey eyes as well, cold and cruel, and sharper than daggers. Never soft. Never sorry. Fenris shifted uncomfortably on his bench and glared into the fireplace.

"I feel neither shame nor sorrow for how that man met his fate." He growled defensively.

"And you think that's normal?" She asked, disbelief ringing in her voice. "I'm not saying he didn't get what was coming to him, but tormenting someone just because you can, inflicting pain merely to prove your own power...that makes us no better than those we are fighting -no better than a Magister."

"Enough!" He snarled, enraged at the comparison and disgusted at his regression into the habits of his slave life. She was quiet for a few moments, letting him regain his composure before continuing.

"I'm not blaming _you_, Fenris." She told him softly, leaning her elbows on her knees and folding her hands together. "I never should have asked you to do that. It was my fault, not yours. I need you to know that I will never ask you to do something like that again. ...can you forgive me?" He blinked at her in astonishment.

"There is no need to coddle me," The elf said gruffly, not meeting her eyes, "I can take responsibility for my own actions. If I had not wanted to do it, then I would not have. There is no need for you to seek forgiveness."

"Truly?" She asked, a smile creeping up on her face once more.

"Truly," He confirmed, one side of his mouth pulling upwards into a faint grin, "Magic may have ruined my life, Hawke, but _you_ have not. I was concerned that even you might fall pray to its evils, but...I cannot help thinking that it seems unlikely. Or perhaps that is simply the wine talking." He chuckled at his own wit, but stopped abruptly when he noticed that she hadn't joined in. He had meant it as a compliment, but her expression seemed to wilt at his words. Her eyes dropped to the floor, studying the cracks in the expensive ceramic tiling.

"You know...it's wrong to blame magic for the evil men do." Hawke told him, after a few minutes of tense silence.

"And the fact that the men with the propensity to do the most evil also wield magic?" Fenris frowned at her.

"In your experience." The apostate argued, "Take recent events in Ferelden for example, Teyrn Loghain, a man who was distinctly _not_ a mage, served up his King on a silver platter to the Darkspawn at Ostagar, started a civil war during a Blight, and was supposedly selling elves into slavery to feed his war machine. On the other hand, the Warden, who was a former Circle Mage, rescued an Arl, found the resting place of Andraste's ashes, rallied nearly all the free folk of Ferelden to her side, no matter their race, and to top things off, she sacrificed her own life while slaying the Archdemon, which saved the lives of every person in Thedas…including you."

"A single person does not redeem the majority." The elf said stubbornly.

"And a single country should not condemn the world." The mage countered sharply.

"This discussion is pointless, Hawke." The former slave sighed, "I do not judge _you_ by your magic, let that be enough."

"But you should." She told him, "A mage's power is fueled by his will, and shaped by his heart."

"Oh, are you more of a mind to tell me what manner of mage you are now, and not brush the question aside with jests?" He sneered, "Will you list all the times you have used your powers for good? You are strong, I grant you that, and I believe you try to do the right thing when you can, but none of these things change the fact that magic is a constant temptation, luring all mages to their inevitable downfall."

"Are you prepared to put your money where your mouth is?" She asked, smiling smugly at him, "I can show you exactly what kind of mage I am, but you'd have to trust me."

"What…would you have of me?" He responded, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Let my magic touch you." She told him, the mocking tone gone from her voice, "No tricks, no spells, just your skin and the smallest bit of raw mana."

"Why should I permit that?" The elf baulked, flinching away from her.

"Father did it for Caver once, when he'd been crying about not being a mage like the rest of us." She explained, "He told me it was like watching a sunrise and feeling each color." She grinned, "Carver's first and only escapade as a poet." She studied him quietly for a long moment, drowning him in her wide grey eyes, "Are you afraid?"

"I fear nothing!" He snarled roughly, but he slumped heavily on the bench soon after. "…the markings," he admitted in a gruff voice after a minute or two of staring angrily at the floor, " their reaction to magic is…powerful."

She knelt before him in the thick layer of dust on the mansion floor. Far enough away that he didn't feel cornered, yet close enough that he could catch the clean scent of soap coming from her hair. He found himself inhaling sharply.

"Give me your hand, Fenris." A request, not an order. He complied, though warily, expecting her to send a jolt of power up his arm. Instead, she slowly guided his hand up past her shoulders, careful to avoid directly touching his skin, and wrapped the sharp talons of his gauntlet around the pale column of her neck. Forest green eyes held storm grey. "Now, if you feel me start to build up mana for a spell, you can rip my throat open before the first word has been uttered." She pointed out.

He tightened his grip, drawing a few pin pricks of blood from her smooth white skin. She closed her eyes and winced, but did not protest or pull away.

"Why would you allow such a thing?" He fretted, but kept his hand where she had placed it.

"Why did you help us fight the Templars in the Chantry, even after seeing what Anders was? Why didn't you report him to them, or Merrill, or _me_ for that matter?" She countered calmly.

"Betrayal seemed a poor way to repay your assistance in keeping me free." He confessed stiffly.

"Then, I repay that nobility with my trust." Hawke shrugged slightly, throwing him a lazy smile.

"It seems a reckless venture." He commented dryly. Her smirk broadened.

"It keeps life interesting, at least."

His lips quirked briefly at her before taking a moment to truly consider her proposal. After a few minutes, he nodded once briskly.

"Very well," Fenris said, "I shall return your faith in kind. Do as you will. I would know the mage I serve."

"You don't _serve_ me, Fenris." The mage told him firmly, as she slowly raised her hands up to his chest. "I need to remove your breastplate and open your tunic a bit. Please, don't go all glowy and punch me through the chest." The elf nodded again, but he fidgeted uneasily on the bench, squeezing Hawke's throat a bit tighter than he meant to. She coughed a little and he gave her an apologetic look. She shook her head dismissively.

"I swear to you," She said seriously as she patiently worked at the clasps of his armor, "On my pride as a Healer, and the honor of my father's name, who taught me all I know: no harm shall come to you at my hands." The elf closed his eyes and struggled to find his calm.

He heard the dull thunk of metal on stone as she set the piece of armor that usually protected his torso on the floor beside her. He swallowed harshly. He had never willingly permitted another to undress him, let alone a mage. Danarius had occasionally enjoyed demeaning him in such a manner while playing host to his fellow Magisters. The man took pleasure from any means to exhibit his wealth and power, especially if it gave him an excuse to exploit Fenris' lyrium markings. His master usually chose a comely body slave to do the job, beautiful, jeweled, and glistening, no matter the gender. They had all gazed up at him with thinly veiled fear, even as their confident palms mapped is form shamelessly. To his humiliation, his body had always responded to those attentions, wanted or not, but that was the point, as his master wanted a display of _all_ of his assets. The memory alone was enough to make him want to retch.

Yet this seemed somehow more intimate, though he was hardly being stripped to his small clothes, and embarrassing, though mostly because of how much it bothered him. A truly free man wouldn't be this nervous about a girl undoing a few of his shirt buttons, he was fairly certain.

"Do you want me to stop?" He heard her whisper. He shook his head vehemently, still refusing to open his eyes. He had promised to trust her in this, however foolishly, and his pride would not let the mere thought of his former owner's depravity make him back down now.

A few nimble pulls at the toggles of his shirt, and the cool damp air of a Free March spring brushed against his bared chest. He ducked his head and scrunched his eyes closed as hard as he could, holding his breath and bracing himself for the inevitable slam of her power surging through his brands. But it never came.

Instead, her fingers slid beneath the open flaps of his tunic, subtle as a sigh, and her smooth dry palm alighted directly over his hammering heart, settling there as gently as a morning haze on meadow grass. He held back a whimper, resisting the urge to grab her wrist and force her closer, to nuzzle his face into her touch. It seemed so much like _kindness_, that wondrously gentle thing he'd always been so starved of, but he hated that the gesture he found so soothing came from the hand of a mage. He could sense the power lurking just beyond her skin, the sleeping beast waiting to rip at him with its dark fangs; it nearly made him sick with anticipated pain.

"I'm going to summon the smallest amount of mana possible." She told him quietly, "Keep your eyes shut and try to hold still if you can…I'm not sure exactly what will happen." He jerked his head once in affirmation, trying to feign indifference, even though he could feel her voice reverberating up through his arm from her throat, and her pulse fluttering in her palm like trapped bird pressed against the fat stripe of lyrium that ran down his sternum.

He had agreed to this largely to prove her wrong, though he'd be lying if he said there hadn't been the slightest kernel of curiosity as well. Hawke was a strange woman, and stubborn to boot, and if he had refused her challenge, she likely would have gnawed at him like a mabari with a bone until he relented. Not to mention the fact that if the Abomination somehow caught wind of his reluctance, the mage would undoubtedly sneer down at him like the would-be Magister he was, and label him a coward. Which would be as intolerable as the man himself was.

But now Fenris was starting to doubt the wisdom of choosing his pride over his usual reservations. Even healing had been painful at his former master's hands, and he had no prior experiences to inform him of the way his brands might respond to raw mana. He expected the usual sting and ache nearby spells tended to cause him, but what if it escalated into agony? What if he tore out Hawke's jugular in a blind panic? The foolishness of this plan was becoming more and more apparent. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but all that came out was a sharp gasp.

Hawke's magic bloomed within his chest like flower comprised entirely of light, slowly unfurling petal by petal, until it seemed to envelop every fragment of his speeding heart. It felt like the ghost of a summer breeze, warming him from the inside out. The sensation was heady and oddly empowering, it was as if he could suddenly stretch beyond himself, beyond all of his crippling inhibitions and tortured dreams, to a place and a person that he had long thought deceased. And for some reason he thought he heard singing.

His brands activated, though it was not a conscious act on his part, and it was like the first sunrise that had ever risen over Thedas. Even with his eyes shut, he could see Hawke, and not just the sweat rolling down her brow or the way she scrunched her face in concentration, but all the way through her bones and muscle, to the essence of all she was, all she would be.

Hawke was the snow drifting down on a cottage in a silent wood. And yet, she was likewise a rosy cheeked babe in arms, gurgling and innocent. And she was the white hands and tender words of a pretty dark eyed maid drenched in blood. She was also Anders dressed head to toe in black with blue fire crackling in his eyes. And a swarm of villagers running and screaming while dogs barked in the distance. She was the Arishok with his great bloodied axe standing in a crowd of nobles. A silver ring. A locket. A worn pair of vambraces. A sleek black feather. A lock of soft white hair. A swath of blazing crimson. Leandra in her wedding dress, solemn and muddy. A raven haired man with sad eyes standing out in the rain.

"Enough!" someone yelled, and the dingy upstairs bedroom of his 'borrowed' mansion jerked back into existence. Hawke was sprawled on the floor at his feet, flushed and panting. Her eyes were bright with panic and her cheeks were damp with the traces of recent tears. Thin scarlet ribbons of blood ran down the pale skin of her throat from the five curving scrapes his iron claws hand rent. He winced at the sight.

"Hawke-" he began, reaching out to her, trying to be gentle.

"It's nothing!" She snapped, recoiling from him as she curled into a tight ball on the grimy floor, looking all the world like a slave cowering before her master.

Fenris was unsure of what he had done exactly, but her obvious revulsion shamed him even so. A woman he was coming to respect and admire was quietly crying at his feet, and he was powerless to comfort her. It should be a simple thing, to offer her kindness somehow, but it was beyond his grasp. He had never felt so utterly useless in his entire life. Well, not that he could remember anyway.

After what was mostly likely mere minutes, but felt more like a thousand years of heavy silence broken only by a few gasping sobs, the mage rose stiffly to her feet. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing dirt on her cheeks. She must have noticed the harrowed expression on his face because she offered him a wan smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Well, that was...bracing," She said mildly, already backing towards the door, "I don't think I'll be trying _that _again."

"Hawke! Y-your throat," He stammered, rising to follow her to the door. He didn't know why, but he didn't want her to be afraid of him. Not her.

"Oh. Right." She said, pausing to summon a plume of cool blue magic and brush it along the column of her neck. "There, all better." He sighed, slumping his shoulders in relief. She made a move to head out the door again.

"Wait!" He called after her, "I do not understand... What just happened here, Hawke?" The line of her shoulders tensed visibly, but she stopped and turned back towards him. She gave him a long searching look as she leaned back against the doorframe, gathering her thoughts.

"I'm...not sure, exactly." She confessed, exhaling loudly. "As I said, magic is shaped by the mage who wields it. Everyone's skills are unique -if somewhat similar, like a hand print, I suppose. That being said, certain personality traits seem to..._coincide_ with certain magical talents."

He arched a dark brow at this thread of discussion, uncertain where she was leading him, but otherwise kept his misgivings to himself.

"For instance, mages who are short tempered tend to have a gift for wielding fire, while a mage who is more easy going and adaptable is more likely to develop an affinity for water spells." She continued.

"I think I understand," He said, frowning slightly in thought, "Tell me then, what would you infer about an apostate who favors ice spells?"

"Controlled." She blinked at him, slightly confused.

"And lightening?"

"Reckless." She laughed in understanding. He joined in with a few dry chortles of his own.

"It seems even your magic is a conundrum, Hawke. Even it doesn't want to give your true thoughts away." Fenris said, offering her a lean smile. "As..._interesting_ as this is however, I fail to see what it has to do with our recent...'adventure'."

"Ah ah ah, Fenris," She chided, waggling a finger at him, "You're forgetting one of my best qualities. I know I have a lot, so it's hard to remember them all, but-"

"Healing," He cut her off in dawning comprehension, "This has something to do with your healing magic?" The smile she gave him was like a sudden beam of sunlight.

"Compassion," Hawke explained, "Or my 'propensity to meddle', as you like to put it. To be a good healer you have to understand someone else's pain and want to make it better. I'd like to think that this is the source of my magic; just like my father."

"I'm still not sure I follow..." He said, giving her a quizzical stare. Hawke heaved a sigh, an _'isn't it obvious?'_ expression scrawled all over her face. He scowled.

"This is all purely speculation of course," She told him, waving a hand dismissively, "But my best guess would be that when the lyrium from your brands activated it intensified the effects of my mana and, despite the fact that I am _really_ good at electrocuting bad guys, I am first and foremost a healer. I think that perhaps the empathy which fuels the core of my magic might have made some kind of...'window?' between our minds."

"So, you are saying that what I saw was your thoughts? Your memories?" His brow furrowed, "That is...discomforting." She blinked at him in surprise.

"What did you see?" The Ferelden asked, her voice echoing the shock in her face.

"I'm not sure," He mumbled, feeling awkward, "There were flashes of... faces, places...random objects. It is fading from my mind even now." Fenris gave her a long look. "Would it be strange to say that I think I saw _you_ Hawke?" He asked quietly.

"Not at all," The apostate said, smiling warmly, "I've never heard of this happening before. Magic can be a 'tricky whore' as Isabela would say. One minute it is hitting all your sweet spots just like you want it to, and the next thing you know, it's run off with your coin purse faster than you can say, 'pants-less in the Chantry'."

"To put it mildly," The elf said bitterly.

"Did it hurt?" She asked, taking a step towards him, one hand outstretched in unwitting concern. He took an automatic step away.

"No." The answer seemed to surprise them both equally.

"...well," Hawke fumbled after another awkward pause, "No harm done. Good night, Fenris."

"Hawke," He called her back for a third time, making her pause halfway though the doorway, "When you were... You seemed upset. Did what happen injure _you _somehow?" She shook her head.

"It wasn't that..." She trailed off, not meeting his gaze.

"Then what?" He wasn't sure why, but something in him needed a name for the sorrow he saw in her eyes.

"A window may be looked through in either direction, Fenris." the mage told him quietly. "You said that you saw me. Well...I saw you, too."

He was both horrified an elated, to imagine that Hawke might be the key to discovering his past. To think that he would never have to go crawling to Danarius or any of his lackeys to find the truth of who he once was- it was more than his heart knew how to handle.

"What did you see?" His voice sounded strangled as he fought down an overwhelming surge of hope.

"I don't know," She said hastily, raising her hands defensively, obviously interpreting his expression as on of anger. "It's gone now, for the most part, just like your memories of me. It feels like a shadow in a dark room, I know it must be there, but I can't really make it out."

"I see." He said stiffly, the disappointment burning in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry." She didn't know why she said it, but that didn't make it any less true. He simply shook his head at her before retreating back to his bench near the fire, barely noticing the little wave she gave him as she left. He picked up an open bottle of wine near his feet and took a long pull. This was going to be an even longer night than he'd thought.


	6. A Knight to Remember

Yay! New Chapter! This one wasn't exactly planned, but I felt like we might need some of this for later . You have no idea how much I am ready to be out of Act 1. Just 2 more chapters to go...*sigh*

Disclaimer: BioWare owns, I can barely rent.

Rating: eh...this one is pretty safe.

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><p>Hawke could think of about a million and one ways this could go horribly wrong. Not that ending up caught in the middle of someone else's problems was really a surprise at this point, but when she'd been halted by Macha's tears, she never would have guessed that she'd be spending the rest of the day tracking templars. Normally, anything that had to do with the Order had her scurrying in the opposite direction as fast as her legs could carry her, but something about the blond girl's wide-eyed grief had reminded her of Bethany, and that had been that. Raen sighed to herself; one of these days she was going to have to learn how to say 'no' to people.<p>

As if seeking out a group of heavily armed warriors who wanted to throw you in prison for the rest of your life wasn't enough to deal with, Hawke had somehow managed to round up the most volatile members of her friends to join her for this quest. Fenris, whom she had run into while browsing the Hightown Market, had insisted on coming with her to the Gallows, despite her protests, and when they had gone to the Hanged Man in search of Varric, they had discovered Anders being thoroughly robbed by Isabela in a game of Diamondback instead. The former Warden had leapt at the chance to visit the city's Circle, eager for the opportunity to get any information that might help the mage underground while also escaping the Rivaini's deftly cheating fingers with a few coins still in his pockets. For her part, Isabela had merely laughed and headed to the bar to start drinking away the healer's money, informing them blithely that this particular job they were on sounded both boring and profitless.

The trip to the Gallows had earned them nothing but more questions and a scrutinizing Guard Captain who had been coming to ask Knight Captain Cullen something. Which meant that Hawke was now blessed with the company of the mage who was most likely to start some kind of insurrection, the former slave who was most likely to maim first and ask questions later, and Aveline, whose well meaning admonishment was most likely to set off Anders, which would most likely set off Fenris, which would leave Raen trying to stop her friends from brawling in the streets. Again.

So, here they were, out in the middle of nowhere, trying to find either Wilmod or the Knight Captain who had come out here looking for him. Astoundingly, their broody elf had managed to avoid pulling anyone's heart out of their chest thus far, and Anders had yet to light anyone's hair on fire, which Hawke counted as a definite win, but it was starting to get late, and there was a whole host of reasons why wandering around near the Wounded Cost after dark was a bad plan. Raen was about to suggest they head back to Kirkwall when the sound of distant shouting reached their ears.

As they rushed towards the argument that was sounding more and more like an impending fight, Hawke sent a quick little prayer to the Maker that Anders would have the good sense to keep his mouth shut about mage rights. Just. This. Once. If he got them both dragged off to the Circle she was going to zap him with a lighting bolt and set fire to those ridiculous feathered pauldrons.

The camp was little more than a fire pit and a bedroll huddled between some crumbling ruins and a treacherous-looking cliff and, sure enough, both of the knights they'd been looking for were there, already in the middle of what seemed like a very one sided beat down. Wilmod looked like he couldn't be much older than Carver, his dark eyes blown wide in fear, his left cheek swollen, his bottom lip split and bloody. The older Templar kneed him viciously in the groin and the boy crumpled to the ground with a whimper.

"Stop!" Someone shouted as Knight Captain Cullen drew his sword, "Don't you lay another hand on that boy." Raen shot an annoyed glance over her shoulder to where Anders was standing, only to find him staring at her in mild disbelief, along with the rest of her friends. Hawke looked down at the stave that had somehow appeared in her hand, and then back up at the Templar who had paused long enough to scowl at her. Oh. Well, so much for playing nice. That sword was looking remarkably stabby all of the sudden.

"This is Templar business, stranger." The knight grunted at her, "I suggest you leave before-" He was cut off by the sound of hysterical laughter.

"You have struck me for the last time, pathetic human!" Wilmod sneered, rising to his feet. "To me!" Hawke felt the veil tear at his call, and demons swarmed up all around them. Wilmod's body writhed and twisted in on itself as the spirit within him revealed its true nature.

"Maker preserve us!" Cullen exclaimed in quiet horror, and Hawke couldn't help but silently agree.

Luckily, living in Krikwall had given Hawke and company plenty of practice fending off a menagerie of monsters, thieves, and crazy people on a daily basis, so fighting half a dozen demons was practically a stroll in the park. The skirmish was over after only a few minutes of yells and grunts and sword swinging, and outside of a few nicks and bruises, no one seemed to have been seriously injured. Fenris, ever the vanguard, had managed to get a nasty looking burn along his left bicep, but he shrugged off Raen's offer of healing.

"Save your mana, Hawke," he cautioned, stealing a glance at the Templar Knight who was preoccupied with praying for the lost soul of his fallen recruit. "This fight may not yet be ended."

As predicted, the Templar's sword remained unsheathed as he turned back to them, but what caught the dark haired mage off guard was the look of pure rage twisting the young knight's face. No matter how skilled he may be, one Templar against so many demons wouldn't have stood a chance on his own, even if he hated mages, as many of his fellows did, Cullen had to realize that they had just saved his life. She heaved a weary sigh as she fell back into a battle stance. _'So much for gratitude.'_

"You could not break me in Ferelden, no matter how long you kept me caged, or how many times you taunted me with visions of her face- _you will not break me now_!" he bellowed. Hawke blinked in confusion.

"What?" she baulked, completely at a loss. Anders seemed to be the only one capable of making the mental leap to whatever ledge the Templar's thoughts had led him.

"She isn't Illuin!" the blond mage barked out, taking a half step in front of Hawke.

"I know that, Apostate!" Cullen spat, "She's a pale imitation- a _fraud_! I was at the Warden's funeral, I watched as King Alistair lit her pyre, and I will not be led astray by some demon's cheap tricks!"

"Nobody is trying to trick you." Raen stepped in, holding her hands up in a gesture of supplication and speaking as she would to a skittish animal. "My name is Hawke. Illuin Amell was my cousin."

"Cousins?" He repeated dumbly. Hawke gave a slow affirming nod.

"On my mother's side. She was an Amell of Krikwall before she met my father," she explained. After another moment or two of tense silence, the Knight Captain lowered his sword, his shoulders slumping in obvious defeat. His cheeks flushed a little as he tried to avoid looking her directly in the eyes.

He had a very open sort of face, the kind of man who seemed incapable of lying. Hawke was willing to bet that he probably ate a bowl of integrity every morning, sprinkled liberally with some Chantry doctrine. He was handsome too, which didn't seem particularly fair; people who wanted to kill her should all be fat and balding with at least five warts, not clean shaven and tall with copper colored ringlets that looked like they would be all too fun to muss. But his _eyes_- it was true that they were big and brown and doe-like, Raen had a feeling that at some point they had also been warm and gentle, but now…. They were haunted and fathomless, and inexplicably sad. Brimming with shame and doubts and endless regrets; they were the eyes of a man who had seen terrible things and been powerless to stop them.

"Forgive me." Cullen said quietly, his voice sounding slightly broken, "You just look _so_ much like…."

"I've been getting that a lot lately," Raen reassured him, forcing a smile and glancing over at Anders, who blushed and quickly looked away. "You knew her well?"

"Not 'well' perhaps, but I knew her," the Templar said wistfully, finally sheathing his blade. "She was…clever, and kind, and full of spirit."

"Funny, too." Anders threw in. Cullen glanced at him warily.

"She was devoted to her studies, and her magic was exemplary." He went on, "She…Illuin always deserved more than a life of seclusion in the Tower. I was proud of her when she joined the Wardens. Even if it meant I-…even if it meant she was leaving."

"I see," Hawke said gently. Maker save her, but she felt sorry for the man. It was painfully clear that he had been head-over-heels for her kinswoman, a love that was doubtlessly as pure and chaste as new fallen snow, and given Anders' tales of dalliance within the Fereldan Circle…. Well, she just hoped the mage didn't have some kind of 'special' story about the Warden that he suddenly felt the need to share.

"So, what now?" she dared to ask.

"That depends on you," the Templar replied, giving her a long searching look. "I doubt you came upon this camp by chance?"

"We were hoping Wilmod would know something about Keran. His sister asked me to look for him," Hawke informed him. "Somehow I doubt he'll be giving us any answers now."

"Two apostates went looking for a templar recruit because his sister asked them to?" the Knight Captain asked, incredulous.

"She was crying!" Hawke said defensively, feeling her cheeks burn.

Cullen's mouth pulled back into a charming little half-smirk when he laughed, and the tension that had been building moments before seemed to dissipate with its arrival. Hawke answered with her own crooked grin, feeling only the slightest bit abashed, and knowing it was a small price to pay for the chance to avoid being smited or thrown in a cell.

"This an official investigation of the Guard."Aveline stated flatly, taking a bold step towards the Templar, her chin jutting out fiercely, daring him to doubt her, "These three are assisting me."

"Calm yourself, Guard Captain," Cullen admonished with a hint of a chuckle, obviously still trying to wrestle with his amusement. "There is no need for your protection in this matter. I would be a fool to attempt apprehending two apostates and their…_associates_ on my own." He turned his attention back to Hawke.

"Whether it was your intent or no, you have assisted the Order in this matter. If you would continue to do so, I would consider it a favor. One that could possibly be repaid by my overlooking your use of magic…for the time being."

"You would do that?" the dark haired mage barked in disbelief.

"As it happens, Wilmod was my last lead," the Templar confessed, "and, as you mentioned so astutely earlier, I doubt he will be able to tell me much about the missing recruits in his current state. However, Wilmod and Keran were both seen at the Blooming Rose before their disappearance."

"And you haven't asked there already?" Aveline butted in. The Knight Captain blushed as bright as his hair.

"None of the…um…'ladies' at the b-brothel would speak to me for fear I would turn them in for serving our recruits…." Cullen fumbled uncomfortably.

"But you think they'd talk to _us_?" Raen asked skeptically. The knight shrugged.

"What have you got to lose by trying?" He smiled. "Besides, even if I was not offering you amnesty, you are on an 'Official Investigation' for the Guard, are you not?" Aveline started to sputter something that was probably very unladylike before Hawke managed to cut her off.

"You make an excellent point," she conceded, trying not to laugh at her friend's expense. "We'll look into it."

"And I didn't even have to cry," Cullen quipped. Hawke burst out laughing, caught off guard by his humor. The knight made a strange gesture with his hand, as if he wanted to reach out to her, but thought better of it at the last moment. There was something bright and wincing in his gaze.

"You..." he started, trailing off uncertainly, "you really are just like her...like Illuin. She asked me to go with her, you know...after she saved me in the Circle Tower. I refused. I had been caged and tortured for...I don't even know how long, days...weeks maybe. I wasn't fit to help anyone. Still, I always wondered if I could have..." The expression on his face was a dark gaping wound. "I have enough regrets, Hawke. Don't make your release one of them."

The mage nodded solemnly, there wasn't much else she could do. The Knight Captain walked past them without another word.


	7. Who We Never Were

AN: Sweet Mother of Abraham Lincoln, writing the end of this Chapter was like pulling teeth! Deep Roads after this! And then: ACT II! FINALLY! *throws confetti*

Disclaimer: Yeah, I still don't own this, nor am I making any kind of money off of it, so please don't sue me. Thanks!

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><p>Hawke was dying.<p>

Anders could see it plain as day from the moment she'd been dragged into his Darktown clinic, Carver and Isabela's strong grip on her arms the only thing keeping her upright as her head bobbed between them like a sinking ship. Fortunately, it was late and the usual tide of patients had long since ebbed away, scurrying back to whatever hovels they called home, which meant there was nothing to stop the one-time-Warden from dropping the various herbs he'd been grinding with his mortar and pestle in favor of rushing to her side. Between the three of them, they managed to shuffle Hawke over to an empty cot and lay her down.

"Anders!" Merrill squawked at him in obvious distress. He had been so distracted by the mostly unconscious woman suspended between her friend and her brother that he had failed to notice the little Dalish blood mage trailing after them like a fretting bumble bee. "There's something I need to tell you-"

"Not _now_, Merrill!" the blond apostate snapped, healing magic pooling in his palms as he cupped Hawke's face with one hand and pried open one of her eyes with the other. "Her eyes are unfocused and her pulse is erratic. Tell me what happened."

"_Someone_ was convinced that she had finally tracked down her blighted relic and sent us waltzing into a bloody ambush,_ that's_ what happened!" Carver fumed, his ire clearly directed at the busty pirate.

"It's not _my_ fault," Isabela countered defensively, her tawny eyes a swirl of frustration and concern, "I was expecting _treasure_, not spiders!"

"Spiders?" The apostate cringed at the thought.

"Big ones," Carver confirmed grimly. Merrill was still hovering in the background like a bad cold that you just couldn't get rid of, wringing her hands together and making little worried hums in the back of her throat. Anders was sure she meant well, but if she wasn't going to help then he wished she would just go home and get out of the way.

"Anders, I _really_ need to-" the elf tried again.

"Still busy over here!" He informed her dismissively, rolling his eyes at her before resuming his search for Hawke's external wounds. He needed to have an idea about what he was dealing with before he attempted to heal her. It had been a long day and his mana was dangerously low; he couldn't just start pumping her full of magic and hope everything turned out alright. If he ran out of energy without reaching the worst of her injuries, she could die and there wouldn't be a thing he could do to stop it.

"Are we thinking venom here, or just a bad bite?" the apostate addressed the rest of the party. He carefully pulled up Hawke's shirt, revealing a set of vicious-looking punctures just above her left hip which were slowly oozing a mix of blood and puss.

"Venom, most likely," the pirate sighed, fiddling with the heavy gold collar around her neck in a failed attempt to seem nonchalant "as far as big spiders go, these were small..._ish_. We were half way back to town when she collapsed; a deeper wound would have dropped her a lot faster."

"Bloody fool wasted all her mana on the rest of us and didn't even check herself for injuries." Carver added heatedly.

"You're...welcome," came a strangled groan from the cot.

"Don't try to talk, Hawke, " Anders ordered gently. "The more you move, the faster the poison spreads."

"She can't be in too much danger if she still has the energy to sass me," Carver commented sourly, but his face was lined with worry. As if in reply, Hawke rolled to one side and retched onto the hard packed dirt floor.

"Ugh!" the pirate complained, backing away from the heaving Fereldan, "I _just_ got these boots polished. Do you _know_ how long it takes to polish thigh-high boots?"

"Something's wrong," Anders muttered fretfully, wiping Hawke's dark hair back from her clammy forehead and gently shifting her so she was laying on her back once more.

"I'll say," Isabela griped. "I didn't get my treasure, my friend is sick, and now I've got mage-puke on my shoes. This day has gone to the bloody Void."

"_Not_ what I meant," the healer sighed in frustration. "Spider poison paralyzes their prey. It makes them lethargic, nauseous even, but... it makes the blood thicken, the heart slow... She shouldn't be feverish and her wound should have clotted by now."

"What does that mean?" Caver asked, his brow furrowing in concern rather than disdain for once.

"It means that a spider bite isn't our only problem here." The blond mage frowned. Hawke was still losing blood, he needed to close her wounds as quickly as possible, but if there was something more to her injuries that he was overlooking...

"Um!" the Dalish mage squeaked from the behind them, drawing three sets of worried eyes. The petite elf visibly quailed under their scrutiny. "I may have tried to heal Hawke. Just a bit," She confessed nervously.

"_You_?" Anders scoffed. "I thought you didn't know any healing magic?"

"Well. I don't. Not exactly." Merrill fumbled, her face flushing in embarrassment. "The Keeper was teaching me before... Anyway, I know this one spell that I use in battle sometimes, and I thought maybe-"

"You used blood magic to try and _heal_ someone?!" the human mage all but shouted at her.

"Great bloody _flames_," Carver swore, raking his hands through his short dark hair.

"Kitten..." Isabela began, speaking gently, "I don't know much about magic, but that seems like...a less than stellar plan."

"You have no idea," Anders fumed. "Don't you know that spells like that only work on the _caster_?"

"W-well, I know that's usually the case," the elf stammered helplessly, "b-but I thought-"

"No!" Anders cut her off furiously. "You _didn't_ think! You _never_ think! If you had been thinking, you wouldn't have sought a _demon_ to try and _heal_ someone!"

"They're spirits," Merrill insisted, sticking her chin out defiantly, "and isn't that what you do all the time?"

Justice flared inside his mind, pulsing with rage at the comparison, pushing at the boundaries of his host's skin, fairly chomping at the bit to get at the little Dalish mage- Anders barely managed to hold him in check.

"**GET**. **_OUT_**." He boomed, blue fire crackling in his eyes. The dark haired elf gave a startled yelp and scrambled back out into Darktown.

"Well, that was uncalled for," the dark-skinned Rivaini commented, sounding annoyed. "She was only trying to help."

Anders took a deep shuddering breath, reeling the fade spirit back to himself, digging deep inside his mind for some small scrap of calm. When he was certain he wasn't about to detach anyone's head from their shoulders he sent the pirate a sour-faced glare.

"What she almost did was 'help' Hawke into an early grave," he snapped. "Would _that _have been alright?"

"About as alright as you throwing a temper tantrum and magic-ing us all to death," Isabela countered, her full lips twisted into a scowl of disapproval that was frighteningly similar to Aveline's- not that anyone would _dare_ tell her that. Except, perhaps, Varric; that dwarf could get away with anything.

"Justice would never harm someone without cause!" Anders said defensively. Even to his own hears, the words sounded like brittle empty things.

"That's not what I saw," the rogue stated coldly, her eyes as sharp as any of the numerous daggers she kept on her person, which was really quite impressive when you took into account that the woman didn't seem to believe in pants.

"Meanwhile, my sister is bleeding out on the table," Carver pointed out loudly, the raw edge of panic gnawing at his voice.

"Go tend to Hawke," Isabela ordered in her 'I'm-still-a-captain' voice. "I'll go make sure no one shanked our friend in a back alley."

"She's not my _friend_," He grumbled at the Rivaini's back, walking back over to Hawke's cot.

"Your loss," the pirate tossed back carelessly, "and quite possibly her gain."

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><p>Anders was well and truly exhausted now. He'd mixed six different poultices before finding the right combination of herbs to completely stop the wound in Hawke's side from bleeding, and he'd been using healing magic in the interim to slow the flow of vital fluids trying to escape his friend and to keep the pain to a minimum. He was more bone weary than he could ever remember being in the whole of his life, his muscles were sore, <em>Maker<em>- even his teeth seemed to ache, and he was pretty sure the room wasn't supposed to wobble this much. Mana depletion was a right pain in the arse.

Once she had stabilized, the sickly mage had roused herself just long enough to browbeat Carver into going home and letting their mother know that they were both alive, and to get some sleep on something a little more forgiving than the rotten planks with canvas thrown over them that Anders had to offer. But Hawke was still too fragile to be moved, which meant she would be spending the night here. In his clinic. Where he lived.

He sat down heavily in a spindly wooden chair beside her cot; unwilling or unable to leave her, he wasn't sure which. She was asleep now, her breathing deep and even; comforting. It had been a near thing; a few more minutes on the road, one more failed potion, and Hawke would have been gone; just like Illuin.

He had never been in love with that girl from the Circle Tower, though they had certainly had their share of dalliances. Not as many as he would have liked perhaps, but she had been a bit of a kiss-ass when it came to the rules. Illuin had her sights set on becoming First Enchanter someday, and from the sound of it, that was exactly what Irving had been grooming her for. Anders would be lying if he said he hadn't been a bit jealous, but he had always consoled himself with the thought that if he hadn't been running off all the time he probably could've had just as good a shot at rising through the ranks of the Tower.

Amell hadn't been a sheep though, he knew that she played the role of the 'Good Girl' because it bought more freedoms and less suspicious glances from the Templars. He could understand that, even if he could never stomach the thought of doing the same. She wanted to earn esteem and loyalty and leave the world better than she found it. Even before Justice, Anders had always kind of given her a grudging admiration and respect. Then he had become a Warden.

Her death was barely twinge to him beforehand, he had known dozens of mage girls who had died; from the Harrowing, from Templar brutality, from their own hand in a fit of despair. It was sad, but it was a wound reopened often enough that it hardly fazed him. Then Oghren had gotten particularly drunk one evening and burst into a riot of hot messy tears, bawling about the look on the Hero of Ferelden's face as she went to fight the Archdemon, and what a shame it was that such a young and beautiful pair of breasts had gone to waste. Warden Commander Jolie had promptly clobbered him upside the head for speaking disrespectfully of the dead, and looked around at the solemn expressions of her recruits, their silence expectant. She'd had little choice, but to heave a long weary sigh, and tell them the true reason Wardens were needed to end a Blight.

Afterwards, Illuin had haunted Anders. Her story could have so easily have been his own. Amell had only been a handful of years his junior, and it suddenly seemed _so_ young. Too young to expect such a sacrifice from. The death of a single person might not seem like much in the grand scale of things, but for a young girl, raised in a tower, threatened and spied on the whole of her short existence, without a single day of freedom out in the sun since before she knew her letters...and then to hand such a child a shortened life filled with tortured dreams and ask them to lay down what little she had that was worth holding on to in order to protect the same people who had made her every hour a living hell... It was too much to be borne. At least with the Harrowing, you knew you had some chance of survival, some sliver of hope, but when there are only three people in your army who can end the Blight, and one of them gets to opt out because he's going to be king…the odds aren't in your favor that you'll be the one who draws the long straw.

Anders wondered how long she had known about the Warden's connection with the Archdemon; how long she knew before she walked into that burning city. He deliberated whether she had chosen that death, or if it had chosen her. He was enraged at the story of how she had been forced into the Wardens, how Knight Commander Greagoir had threatened her with imprisonment and the possibility of Tranquility for simply trying to help her friend escape. If the rumors were true, she hadn't even been planning on leaving with the doomed lovers. The Grey Wardens had been her salvation, her sole chance for freedom, just like him. And what a heavy price they had paid for it.

Watching Hawke now, he could clearly see all the differences between her and her kinswoman. Her hair was ebony as opposed to rich loamy brown, her nose was slightly longer and upturned at the end, and her lips weren't quite as full. Still, the resemblance was striking. So much so, that from the moment he had met her, Anders had wanted to shield Hawke; from the doom he and Illuin had shared by joining the Wardens, from the tortures of the Circle, from the fate of all mages in Thedas. Not that she usually needed much help taking care of herself, but every time he looked at her he saw the ghost of that talented girl he'd been powerless to save, and a woman who represented everything he and Justice were fighting to protect.

While studying Hawke's face, he noticed a cut above her left eyebrow. Without thinking, Anders reached over and pressed his fingers to it gently. The cut was shallow and mostly scabbed over, requiring only the barest flicker of mana to close it completely. She stirred at the brief flash of blue, nuzzling her face into his hand.

"Father?" She exhaled the question sleepily. Anders felt the heat rise in his face, but moved his hand to cup her cheek.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he apologized. "Try to go back to sleep, Hawke." As if to spite him, she slowly blinked herself into consciousness.

"Sorry," she said after a heavy pause, her voice still gravely and thick with sleep, "I thought you were…I forgot…where I was."

"So I gathered," he replied, smiling softly. "I've been called many things by my patients, but they don't usually mistake me for their parents."

"Your magic…feels similar," she mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

"To your father's?" he asked in mild shock.

"Not really all that surprising when you think about it," Hawke said wryly. "You're both healers who trained in the Fereldan Circle."

"I've never heard of someone being able to tell mages apart by their magic before," the blond man said doubtfully. Anders could sense similarities in the way a mage wielded their powers sometimes, but it was rare, and because he had never heard of anyone else being able to do it, he had always rather arrogantly assumed that it was a talent unique to him.

"Apostate," Raen reminded him with a tired grin. "Bethany could do it too."

"She was your sister, right?" he asked. "You don't talk about her much."

"She….Bethany was the best of us," Hawke told him quietly. "She was pretty, and kind, with the sweetest disposition of anybody I've ever met. She could find the good in anything, in _anyone_. Leaving Ferelden was _nothing_ in comparison to leaving _her_."

"I'm sorry," Anders said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "She sounds like a special girl."

"She was," the dark haired mage smiled weakly. "You remind me a little of her, too." She moved her hand to her hip, seeking something. "If I could have- Wait, where is it?"

"Where is what?" the former Warden asked, confused.

"It was hers," Hawke explained with mounting panic. "A piece of red cloth. I always have it-" She sat up, patting herself down in a frenzy to find the token of her lost sibling. She leaned over the side of the cot, scanning the room for her missing treasure. "It _has_ to be here!" she all but sobbed.

"Hawke!" Anders shouted, grabbing her arms as she tried to get off the makeshift bed. "You shouldn't be up right now, you almost _died_ earlier! I'm sorry about whatever it was you lost, but it was just a thing. And it's gone. You need to let it go."

"It is _not _'just' a thing!" she exclaimed, writhing in his grasp, tears welling in her eyes. "It's _Bethany_! It's all I have left of her. I swore I'd take care of her and…and I failed once already. You can't tell me to leave her behind. Not again."

"Hawke?" a small feminine voice floated through the splintered wood of the clinic doors.

"M-merrill?" the dark haired human sputtered in reply, clearly seconds away from complete emotional shutdown.

Anders quickly bustled over to unlock the doors and let the Dalish mage in; he'd never been so happy for her awkward sense of timing in the whole course of their acquaintance. For her part, the elf gave barely gave him more than a cool glance before slipping around him deftly and walking towards their injured friend. But this was not the end of his late night visitors, for Porthos was hot on the little blood mage's heels, nearly bowling the blond man over as he shouldered his way through the partially open door and loped to his mistress' side.

"What's the matter, Lethallan?" the Dalish girl gasped as she reached her friend's side. "You aren't upset because I showed up, are you? Because I can leave if you'd like me-"

"Where'd you find that?!" Hawke interrupted, pointing at the square of faded red silk in the elf's hand.

"Oh, this?" she asked, holding up the item in question. "It was in my pack. Didn't even realize it was there until Porthos started rummaging through it."

"He followed you home?" the dark haired Fereldan queried, clearly surprised.

"Well…no," Merrill confessed. "It was more like I was about to go to bed when I heard something outside howling like a demon. He nearly knocked me over when I opened the door to see what all the fuss was about."

"_Porthos_," Hawke scolded the Mabari. The dog whined at her in a doleful apology and put his head on her knee, smearing drool on her trousers. She sighed in defeat before giving in and scratching him lightly behind the ears.

"It's important to you isn't it? It seems important," the elf said with a sad smile as she wound the piece of cloth around Hawke's pale wrist.

"Yes," Raen admitted in a choked whisper.

"I washed it for you," the Dailsh told her. "It was covered in blood. I think we might have tried to use it to stop up your wound at some point... I'm sorry, by the way, about the whole 'using blood magic on you'...thing. I just wanted-"

"To help," Hawke finished for her. "I know. I'm not mad at you, Merrill."

"But...but-I" the elven girl stammered, casting a nervous glance at Anders. The dark haired human mage followed her gaze.

"Was there any trace of demonic possession when you were healing me earlier, Anders?" the Fereldan apostate asked.

"Well, no-" the blond man began.

"Then you have nothing to apologize for, Merrill," Hawke said firmly, turning back to her friend. The little Dalish mage threw her arms around the injured woman's neck, tears streaming down her face. It took nearly five minutes to calm her down, and at least another fifteen to convince her that there was nothing more she could help with, and that it would _really_ be best for everyone involved if Porthos escorted her back to the alienage. So naturally, when the clinic doors swung shut behind the elf's lithe form, the former Warden found himself shaking his head at the stubborn will of his patient in annoyance and mild disbelief.

"She nearly _killed_ you, Hawke," Anders sighed, frustration and exhaustion grating through his voice.

"But she_ didn't_," she retaliated, lightening flashing in her stormy eyes, "and she wasn't _trying_ to. It was an accident." The Darktown healer gave her a long searching look.

"...She isn't Bethany, Hawke," he told her quietly.

"No, she isn't," Raen agreed, "and _you_ aren't my father."

"I never said I was!" Anders exclaimed, sounding somewhat hurt.

"But you think you have the right to dictate who deserves my forgiveness and who doesn't," she snapped.

"No!" he shouted, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders. "What I _think_ is that I'd like you to stay alive!"

They glared at each other, dark roiling brown clashing against deep storm cloud gray. Tension crackled in the air between them, igniting in a way that none of their previous little spats had. They were two equal and opposite forces, like fire and ice, each burning up the atmosphere with the potency of their will. Anders wasn't sure what to make of it, this sudden 'push-me-pull-you' gravitation drawing them in...but it was strong, and mostly likely incredibly dangerous for all parties.

"I...think I should go home now," Hawke said tersely, turning away from him.

"Don't be stupid!" he scolded her, his anger bleeding out with the sudden influx of fresh worry. "It's the middle of the night. Darktown is teeming with thugs just waiting to stab someone, and you were half dead a few hours ago. It isn't safe!"

"Is it safe here?" she whispered, still not meeting his eyes.

"What?" Anders baulked, "I would _never_ hurt you, Hawke."

"Can you promise me that, Anders?" Raen asked softly, finally looking up at him. Her gaze was wide and scared and-Maker save him- _wanting_...and if she had looked at him like that six months ago he would have kissed her. And _so_ much more. He would have gone after her without shame or doubts or really any kind of regret lingering in his mind, but as always, Justice was there, and his disapproving thoughts about dalliances and taking advantage of unsuspecting women seemed to hiss in his ears, making him blush and turn away from her.

"Stay here," he insisted, his voice raw. "I'll sleep in the back room. Let me know if you need anything, Hawke." He walked away, not trusting himself to look back at her, uncertain if he could stop himself a second time if there was any trace of disappointment on her face. As he closed the door behind him, her voice floated through the thin peeling wood.

"Thank you, Anders."

He wasn't certain he knew what he was being thanked for. He wasn't sure he wanted to. He blew out the candle beside his bed, and for the first time in months, he dreamt of something besides darkspawn.


	8. A Lullaby

AN: OHMYGOSH! This chapter was the first one I started writing when I started developing Raen as a character and discovered that she had a story worth telling. This is probably my favorite one I have written thus far. It was also one of the most difficult. I had to stop once or twice due to...feelings. Anyway, please read and enjoy, as always!

Disclaimer: BioWare still owns it. Not making any money here, no matter how many slivers of my own soul find there way in.

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><p>Stillness, a damp creeping darkness, and the feeling of an immensely oppressive weight pressing down on you; that was the Deep Roads. Though he had never put much stock into the so-called 'need' for elves to commune with nature, Fenris would admit that he found the lack of sunlight...discomforting. As much as it irked him to agree with the mage about anything, he could understand why Anders had no wish to return here.<p>

Fenris had never been bothered by either quiet or the lack of light. In fact he found that he usually preferred them, but the complete and utter silence in these tunnels was stifling, and the almost opaque blackness surrounding them made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. There was a feeling of some constant unforeseen danger lurking just beyond the reach of his senses, whetting his nerves to a sharp edge. The whole place was just..._wrong_, and he was firmly of the opinion that the sooner they could see the sky, the better.

He was not exactly sure what he was even doing here. He had accompanied Danarius into the Deep Roads once, to see off an expedition of a similar nature to this one that the Magister had been funding. The mage in question had meant to prove his courage by daring to journey down to were only death and darkspawn waited, though naturally his former master barely ventured beneath the surface. A show, after all, is just a show. And, as were most things involving his time as a slave, the experience had been...unpleasant. Despite that, here he was anyway, following another wielder of magic into certain danger, high risks, and unlikely rewards -of his own volition no less! Hawke had made it very clear that she would take no one with her who did not wish to go, though Varric had made a rather convincing argument about why she should drag the Abomination along. The Ferelden woman had refused by stating rather sharply that they were all companions, that she was Anders' friend, not his boss, and if the man didn't want to go, she wasn't about to force the issue and end up in a face-off with Justice. It was therefore obvious to Fenris that he certainly could have stayed in Kirkwall if he had so desired, and Hawke would have respected his choice, like she always did.

Yet, here he was, taking his turn on watch by their meager fire, playing bodyguard to a mage once again. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was true enough that he needed the coin, and disappearing for a few weeks might throw off some of the hunters his former master sent after him, but if he was being completely honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he was down here because of Hawke.

He looked across the campfire to where she was sprawled out on the cavern floor, and felt one corner of his mouth quirk in amusement. It was as if sleep had managed to sneak up on her unawares and tackle her to the ground. She was flat on her back with her limbs flung wide and her mouth slightly parted as she snored gently into the foreboding darkness hanging over them.

They were trapped down here, sealed in by Varric's treacherous brother, and every step felt as if it led them further away from the surface. It seemed as if they were doomed to wander the crumbling paths of ancient dwarven cities until either starvation or darkspawn overtook them. Yet, even with the almost certain prospect of a grisly death looming before them; there was Hawke, sleeping as carelessly as a babe in its mother's arms. He found something profoundly endearing about the ridiculousness of it, that not even the gloom of the deep roads could change Hawke or her apparent disdain for normalcy.

"You know, I envy her ability to do that," came a voice from beside him. He turned about sharply, coming face to face with Hawke's brother. "She can fall asleep anywhere, even after all that moaning about how much this place creeps her out."

"Perhaps it is a skill learned from a life on the run?" Fenris suggested, shrugging one shoulder and shifting uncomfortably at being caught staring.

"Hey, I lived that life too, remember?" Caver answered with only the slightest hint of his usual sourness, glancing over to his snoring sibling long enough to give her a sliver of a grin. The silence of the Deep Roads hung between them for the space of several heartbeats before he finally spoke again.

"You like her, don't you?" the younger Hawke asked in a soft tone the elf had never heard from him before. Fenris visibly bristled at the implication, but stopped himself from lashing out, taking a moment to consider the intent behind the question.

"I am...fond...of her companionship, I suppose," he replied stiffly. Caver snorted in disbelief, making the former slave's mouth pull down into his somewhat infamous scowl of displeasure.

"Fine," the younger warrior grunted, back to his customary dourness, "be evasive if you want, but she'll get to you eventually- she gets to everybody." Fenris gave him a quizzical look.

"I mean that she draws people to her," he explained. "She earns their trust, or at least their respect, without even trying. It's just a thing she does- like how she can sleep anywhere. It's bloody annoying."

"You say that, and yet you sound proud," the white haired elf stated with an air of mild amusement.

"Maybe I am," Carver admitted, "But she is a sodding tough act to follow. No one was going to take a second glance at me with her around...not that it matters any more, I suppose."

"What do you mean?" Fenris asked, not liking the finality in his companion's tone.

Without a word, Carver pulled off one of his bracers and held out his arm so the elf could see it clearly in the dim light cast by their fire. Black and purple bruising had mottled the skin of his forearm, the veins surrounding it were dark and troubling. The elf's green eyes widened in dismay.

"You…have the darkspawn illness…the taint." Fenris said quietly, his voice laced with traces of horror. The young Ferelden remained silent as he replaced his vambrace. "Does Hawke know?" the Tevinter elf queried.

"No, and you're not going to tell her." Carver hissed sharply, "She'd just waste all of her mana trying to heal me, and then you and Varric would have to drag both of us out of here. Besides…this isn't something she can fix with magic."

"_Nothing_ can be 'fixed' with magic," the former slave replied bitterly.

"Says the elf my sister has patched up time and again because he has to play the vanguard and get himself all bitten and burned and hacked at," the human warrior retorted, punctuating his statement with an eye roll.

"I could easily say the same of you," the elf pointed out, "You probably complain about her magic as often as I do."

"It's not the same!" Carver protested, "I hate the fact that I got dragged into the 'Mages' Plight' because of my family's magic, and yet, I was still treated like an outsider- they thought I couldn't 'understand' them because I was different. I hated that the fact my sisters were mages dictated every choice I ever got to make. I hate that Raen always just thought I could walk away from them and have a normal life if I wanted to. I hate that she'd never just shut up and let me take care of her for once. But I never hated _her_ because she was born a mage!"

"I see," was all the response that Fenris could muster, slightly stunned by the younger man's outburst, and even more surprised by the fact that he could somewhat sympathize with him. "I…sometimes forget that Hawke is a mage." He confessed after a moment or two of silence, "It seems a pity that such a…good natured person should be given such a curse."

"Oh please," Carver scoffed, "she hardly needs your pity. But…can I ask you to do something for me?"

"What…would you wish of me?" the elf asked, filled with a sudden wariness.

"You aren't the only one who forgets my sister is a mage sometimes," the Ferelden explained. "I think she forgets, too. I think she _wants_ to forget, and she throws herself into all of these impossible situations as some kind of atonement for not being able to save Bethany…and Father."

"You believe she is seeking death?" Fenris conjectured, sounding doubtful.

"The only reason she'd be seeking death was to beat it over the head with her staff until it was unconscious." Carver snorted in derision. "What I'm trying to say, is that she's reckless. She doesn't stop and think about what could happen to her and Mother if the Order ever found her. I mean, she knows, but she just shrugs it off like it's something that she'll think about when it happens."

"And?" Fenris said skeptically. "What would you have _me_ do about it?"

"Just…look after her for me, will you?" the younger Hawke requested softly. "This isn't a sickness you recover from, and…I just don't want her to be alone."

"You wish me to ensure that she is not…lonely?" the former elf asked, clearly puzzled.

"No, just-" Caver heaved a sigh. "I think Varric likes to egg her on sometimes, Isabela is too selfish, Merrill is too wrapped up in her elf…_things_, Aveline has her guards to think of, and Anders is too crazy by half. Just…make sure she doesn't do anything _too_ stupid, alright? She listens to you."

"She disagrees with half the things I say!" he protested.

"Which also means she _agrees_ with half the things you say." the Ferelden pointed out. "She doesn't pick fights with you like she does with Anders...or _me_, for that matter. You know what I mean, when she gets this sort of..._sour _disapproving frown, and then you know nothing you say is going to change her mind, because she's decided to teach _you_ a lesson about something..."

Fenris blinked at him.

"At any rate," the human continued, flushing slightly, "what I meant to say is, that she doesn't do that with you. When you don't agree with her, you make your point and she listens, and if she thinks you're wrong she stops and tells you why. She doesn't scold you like you're a naughty child, she faces you as an equal. So...do me a favor and use that to keep her from getting herself killed doing something she thinks is brave and spectacularly noble."

"You care for her deeply," the former slave commented, a twinge of envy lurking in his voice.

"She's my sister." Carver shrugged, as if such feelings should be obvious.

Fenris looked back over at Hawke, still blithely snoring on the cavern floor, and pondered what her brother was asking of him. On the one hand, he had no intention of spending the rest of his days safeguarding the life of an apostate, but…he couldn't deny that he liked Hawke. Well, at least he couldn't say that he _disliked_ her. He certainly didn't wish any harm to come to her, and her general foolhardiness almost guaranteed that such an outcome was inevitable. Plus, according to Carver, she respected him as an equal and a man; that deserved something of him, surely.

"Carver," he said finally, holding out his hand in a rare gesture of trust, "I cannot swear to always protect her, as many things may change in the years to come, but I promise you that as long as I am at her side, I will keep her safe. As well as I am able."

"I'll hold you to that," the Ferelden answered while giving the elf a firm handshake and a weak grin. "No one could ask for more."

"That has never stopped you before," the former slave replied wryly.

"Great," the human said with a dry chuckle, "even her jokes are contagious."

"Like a plague," Fenris agreed.

"Like a Blight," Carver corrected with a grim smile.

* * *

><p>"Thank the Ancestors," Varric groaned as they entered the high ceilinged chamber that had clearly been shaped by dwarven hands, "someplace that looks familiar. <em>Finally<em>."

"Are you certain?" Fenris asked doubtfully. "All of these tunnels look the same to me."

"I think _that's_ a fairly good indication of our presence," Hawke said, pointing to the corpses strewn about the floor near the doorway opposite them. "We haven't run into too many dragons down here."

"Just rock wraiths, deepstalkers, demons, and darkspawn," the elf grunted.

"D'you think we could…take a break?" Carver interjected, breathing heavily. "I feel..._wrong_."

"I told you that you'd regret it if you gave me cooking duty." Raen grinned back at him. "Those deep mushrooms were barely palatable _before_ I got my hands on them."

"N-no, I-" was all her brother could wheeze in reply before his legs gave out. Fenris managed to seize the younger warrior by the arm before he hit the ground, barely keeping him on his feet.

"_Carver_!" Hawke exclaimed, the cool glow of her healing magic already swirling around her fingers as she rushed to his side.

"D-don't…waste your energy," he sputtered as Fenris helped lower him into a sitting position. "There's nothing you can do."

"Don't be stupid," his sister chastised him, her voice catching in her throat as she reached out to put her hands against his chest.

"Sister!" Carver barked gruffly, grabbing her wrist with a large clammy hand. "Look at me! My arm…. Just like that Templar, Wesley…. I'll be just as dead."

"No," Raen said in a horrified whisper. "No, no, no, _no_!" she repeated frantically as she fumbled with the buckles on her brother's vambrace and tore it from his arm to see the dark blotchy bruising that had almost reached up to his elbow. She looked into the cloudy silver of Carver's once-clear blue eyes, eyes that had been the exact shape and shade as their mother's, and gave a strangled sob at the hopelessness she saw staring back at her.

"We're in the middle of nowhere," Varric told her, his voice thick with regret. "We can't help him, and it's at least another three days back to the surface from here."

"And another week and a half to Kirkwall," Carver managed to croak out. "You're going to have to…leave me behind."

"Don't talk like that!" Hawke snapped furiously. "I'm going to heal you. We're going to go home and buy the biggest gaudiest most obnoxious bathtub we can find and then we're going fill it with our riches and take turns swimming in them. And then we'll get you your own mabari pup- I swear I won't steal this one- and I'll help you pick out something pretty for Merrill and-"

"_Sister!_" Carver interrupted hoarsely. "This isn't something you can fix. You can't drag me out of here while fighting half the Deep Roads and expect to have the strength to heal me, too." He touched her face with cold fingers. "Even if you could, you know there's no cure for the taint. It's getting worse. I can feel it..._changing_ me."

"Don't leave me," Hawke whimpered. Carver stroked her hair consolingly, and for a moment it seemed like he was the elder of the two.

"You'll do it for me, won't you, Sister?" he asked her quietly, managing to yank a dagger from his belt and hold it out to her. Hawke gave a bitter chuckle, a stream of heavy tears leaving trails in the dirt smeared across her face.

"You always did ask for the world, Carver," she told him ruefully.

"And you always gave it," he returned with a sad smile. "It's just you now... Take care of Mother, alright?"

"No need to ask for that," Hawke said with a bark of harsh wet laughter, "She's going to _kill_ me when I come home without you." She took the blade from her brother's hand with trembling fingers.

"Thank you." Carver breathed, his voice breaking into a fit of coughs.

"Don't _thank_ me for this," the apostate snapped fiercely, tears still stinging her storm gray eyes. "Not for m-murdering my... Oh, _Maker_!" She turned her face from him, unable to finish her thought.

"You're _saving_ me, Raen," he reminded her softly, placing his hand over hers on the hilt of the dagger. "Just like you always do." Carver peered up at her, his eyes glassy and pleading, and all Hawke could see was that little boy clutching a dead bird in his chubby five year old hands, waiting for her to make things alright again. _'Why can't you fix this, Raen?'_

"I _can't_!" Raen wailed, tossing the knife away as if it had bitten her and throwing her arms around her brother's neck. "You can't just sit there, all _alive_ and staring at me, and expect me to be able to just put you down like a horse with a broken leg!"

"Tch, because watching me die slowly from the corruption would be so much better?" Carver huffed at her in exasperation, but returned her awkward embrace none the less.

Nearby, Varric wore an expression of one who was about to be sick, as if all he wanted was to be looking at anything _but_ the misery his friends were going through thanks to the actions of his own treacherous brother. The dwarf balled his broad hands into fists at his sides, rage and shame warring for dominance in his thoughts; Bartrand would pay for this.

For his part, Fenris watched the pair in his customary silence, uncertain of what should be said at such a time and whether or not such an intrusion would even be welcome. He glanced down at his feet and was met with the sight of the blade the Ferelden woman had flung away mere minutes ago, and something about it reminded him of his promise to Carver from the night before. His face was impassive as he retrieved the dagger from where it had fallen and went to kneel at the Hawke siblings' side.

"I can assist you, Hawke. If you find yourself…unable." The elf told her quietly, offering the offending weapon back to her. "I have more experience with a blade than you do; I can be…merciful." She blinked up at him as though she had never seen him before in her life, as if she was a child, terrified and lost. Her eyes were wide and wet and roiling, threatening to drown him in the stormy ocean of her grief. Fenris felt his heart clench within his chest, as if the expression on his companion's face was capable of wrenching out his organs as surely as his own lyrium scarred fingers.

"No." the mage replied stiffly, still crouching in the dirt with her hands on her dying brother's shoulders, refusing to meet the elf's eyes. There was something cold in her voice that made Fenris feel as though she'd slapped him.

"Sister…" Carver began, his tone choked and close to begging.

"I promised Father I'd take care of you," Hawke explained in a whisper, touching their foreheads together. "No matter what that means."

"I…have something that might help." Varric offered hesitantly, holding up a small vial of clear liquid.

"_Poison!_" the apostate spat in revulsion.

"_Fast-acting_ poison," the dwarf corrected. "Not painless, but certainly more humane than a slit throat." The rogue walked over and firmly pressed the little bottle full of death into one of the mage's pale hands.

"B-but," Hawke fumbled in objection, giving her little brother a long searching look.

"Make me sleep," Carver suggested, "like you used to when we were little."

"That was _Mother_," Raen informed him with a sigh as she helped him shift so he was laying on the ground with his head in her lap.

"No it wasn't," he said with a smirk. "You used magic on me when I had bad dreams. I could always tell... you have a terrible singing voice." Hawke laughed despite herself as she put one hand on his chest and began the spell that would send her sibling into a deep gentle slumber.

"I didn't think you knew about that," she said wistfully. "You never said a thing."

"That wasn't the only thing I knew about," Carver said groggily, his voice already thick with sleep. "Raen...I knew about Gale."

"That's hardly a secret, Carver." Hawke told him with a smile, sweeping the hair back from his eyes as she continued casting.

"No..." He struggled to speak through the pain of his sickness and the weariness brought on by his sister's magic. "I heard Father telling Mother...about Gale...and the Templars." He was fighting to keep his eyes open, but he managed to place his hand over hers. "That's why...I asked to learn swordplay. ...wanted to..._protect_... But you didn't need me...you...never needed me. C-could never even...get you to...look at me..."

Raen paused mid-spell and sat looking down at her brother with a mix of shock and horror scrawled on her face. Aguish and surprise froze her thoughts. Carver's death, the Deep Roads...Gale...all she wanted was a way to escape them; to wake up somewhere cool and sunny and hear the sounds of her mother calling her for breakfast as the twins bickered over how to cook the eggs and her father's deep booming laughter echoed through their house. Had there ever been such a place? Or a time where every day was simple and boring and happy? How did you find your way back to such a thing once it had abandoned you? Raen doubted she would ever know.

Her little brother drew her back to him with an insistent tug on her shirtsleeve.

"I-in through the window..." he mumbled roughly before breaking out into another fit of coughs. "Come on, Sis...you remember how it goes." She nodded slightly and gave him an aching smile as she stroked his hair and began singing softly.

"_In through the window a moonbeam comes,—_

_Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;_

_All silently creeping, it asks, 'Is he sleeping—_

_Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?'_"

Carver's breath grew heavy and even. Raen pulled the stopper out of the vial Varric had given her, and with tremulous fingers, pressed it to her brother's lips. He swallowed.

"_U-up from the sea there floats the sob_

_Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,_

_As though they were groaning in anguish, and m-moaning—_

_Bemoaning the ship that s-shall c-come no m-more._"

Hawke counted his heartbeats as they slowed. She held her breath as he gave one last shuddering sigh. His chest stilled. Her lungs burned with a mix of guilt and sorrow, it scorched the back of her throat, making her want to curl into herself and blow away like a piece of ash from a funeral pyre.

"_But sleep, little bird, and fold your wings,—_

_Little blue bird with mournful eyes;_

_Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—_

_Swinging the nest where my darling lies._"

She leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"I _always_ saw you, Carver."

* * *

><p>It was strange how quiet they were without Carver. Although he never would have claimed to enjoy it, Fenris had grown accustomed to the constant noise of Varric's snarking, Carver's complaints, and Hawke's stream of comebacks regarding them both. He had mostly tried to stay out of it, but it seemed like one of them, usually Hawke, always seemed to wrangle him into some part of the conversation. He was not particularly talkative by nature, but as a slave he had been expected to be seen and not heard, and the habit was harder to break than he'd like to admit. To have companions who not only listened to his input, but sought it out…was more pleasant than he had anticipated. Still, he never imagined he would feel the loss of it so keenly.<p>

Now, the woman whose laughter he knew better than his own ambled in front of him listlessly, she had barely slept, only eaten when Varric had forced her to, and the spark was gone from her eyes. Yet, of all things, it was her silence that troubled him the most. Even when they'd run into another troop of darkspawn and Fenris had taken an arrow to the shoulder, she hadn't spoken a word. He hadn't realized until then how much he had come to rely on her kindness, on the smiles and the jokes and the teasing she'd give him as she'd healed his wounds… or how such simple gifts could make a man want to get back on his feet and fight for them again and again. Her good-natured stubbornness had been what was dragging them out of this pit, and now that it was suddenly absent, it was difficult not to lose hope.

It was a hard truth to bear that Carver was gone, and Hawke was lost.

If they had been back in Kirkwall, Fenris may well have left the apostate to her own devices, being firmly of the belief that the only cure for grief was time and introspection, but they were alone in the dark and she was clearly tearing herself to pieces. The former slave doubted he had the proper tools at his disposal to offer her any real sort of comfort, but he felt as if he owed it to Hawke's little brother to at least try. He had made a promise, after all.

They had stopped to make camp for the evening (if indeed it _was_ evening) near a large underground lake. They had rested here on their initial decent into the Deep Roads, and according to Varric's calculations, they were probably a little more than a day and a half from the surface now, but Hawke had seemed less than enthused by this report. In fact, something of a wince had passed over her face when the dwarf had told her. Perhaps she was pondering whether they could have made it this far if they had tried to bring Carver, or maybe she was merely dreading the eventual talk she would need to have with Leandra upon their return.

At any rate, after Varric had delivered the news and suggested they stop for the night, the Ferelden had simply given them both a curt nod, dropped all of her gear, and stomped off into the Deep Roads. So, three hours later, Fenris had armed himself with the blanket from her pack, a host of uncomfortable feelings and a few scattered hopes of being perceived to have good intentions, and went to seek out their once-fearless leader.

They had laid out their campsite in a convenient little antechamber a short ways from the wide grotto that actually housed the lake, uncertain what else might be interested in a source of something fresh to drink. Even from here, Fenris' keen ears could hear distant echoes from the main chamber, and hoped that was where their wayward mage had gone off to. As he drew nearer to their source, the sounds became clearer; the gentle swish of movement in the water and...the soft sniffling of someone trying very hard not to cry.

He strode boldly into the darkness upon comprehending her distress, thinking perhaps that she had managed to injure herself somehow whilst foolishly rambling out here alone. The warrior had purposely been suppressing the light from his markings, not wanting to attract the various monsters of the Deep or startle Hawke with his approach. This, added to the carelessness brought on by a sudden rush of concern, ultimately caused him to catch his feet on something and almost land face first in the lake's black waters.

"_Venhedis!_" The elf hissed the curse loudly as his brands flared to life, illuminating the entire cavern with the blue-white blaze of his surprise. As he lay sprawled in the mud, he glanced back at his traitorous appendages to see what he had tripped over, and discovered that it was…a pair of boots? Boots that looked suspiciously like the ones Hawke had been wearing earlier. There was a pile of cloth nearby as well, and it seemed that a pair of familiar looking trousers had managed to tangle themselves around one of his ankles. Fenris kicked the article of clothing away as though it were a snake that might bite him, his heart hammering in his chest. Hawke was out in the water somewhere completely-

"Fenris?" She called his name, the first word he had heard from her in over a day, and it was small and worried and raw with tears. His eyes sought her out automatically, and sure enough, there she was, naked as the day she was born, standing out in the cold black lake. Thankfully her back was to him, preserving some tiny shred of her modesty, but he could still make out the graceful curve of her spine, her strong slender arms, and the generous swell of her hips where they disappeared into the nearly opaque water. He turned his head away quickly, yet the ethereal vision of her smooth white skin awash in the lyrium colored light if his markings, with droplets of water gleaming in her dark hair like stars on a summer night, was still burning behind his eyelids. She looked like some sort of divine being. She looked like a ghost.

"I-I am here, Hawke." He managed to spit out gruffly as he scrambled to his feet. "I came to bring you back to camp. You should not be out here on your own."

"If you're here, that means Varric is alone," she pointed out coolly. "Go protect him."

"He has laid out a veritable menagerie of traps," the elf informed her. "We are to whistle the first verse of Bianca's song to regain entry to camp." She said nothing. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, uncertain of how to proceed.

"...I hope _you_ know that tune, Maker knows _I_ don't pay attention when the Dwarf starts humming to himself. If I attempt to go back alone, I will most likely whistle the wrong thing, and Varric will shoot me with so many arrows people will mistake me for Orleasian cheese." He thought he heard a muffled giggle. Fenris heaved a sigh of relief; Hawke couldn't be too far gone if she was still capable of laughing.

"Why are you here, Fenris?" she asked him after another worrying pause.

"To bring you back, as I said," the white haired elf stated, puzzled by her question. "Why else would I have come?"

"I thought you- ...Oh, never mind," she grunted, clearly annoyed. "I'm coming out, so don't look at me."

"I brought your blanket," he offered, closing his eyes and holding it out in front of him. There was a lot of loud splashing as she sloshed her way to the shore, it was followed by a nearby yelp and mumbled swearing that sounded a lot like 'stupid, nug-humping, pointy rocks', and then he felt the blanket being snatched from his hands. Fernis gave her few minutes to pull her clothes back on before opening his eyes. He and Hawke were almost exactly the same height, and yet she stood before him looking incredibly small and sad and wet.

"W-why did you come instead of V-varric?" Hawke asked him, her teeth chattering with cold. She clutched the thin bedroll around her shoulders, and the elf was having a very hard time trying to forget that his companion had been recently nude. He saw that she was wearing Carver's bracers.

"Varric's own brother recently abandoned him to die," Fenris reminded her stiffly, feeling awkward about seeing her sans clothing and a bit offended that she apparently thought he had no sympathy for what she was going through. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. "Not to mention the loss of a friend that betrayal has led to…."

"In other words, he has his own wounds to lick right now," the shivering mage surmised. She gave him a long look. "But not you?"

"I suspect I am more…_accustomed _to loss than either of you," he told her with a tight shrug. Hawke moved to turn away from him, her eyes downcast, wounded by his insinuation, and he grabbed her by the shoulder to halt her escape. "That does not mean I am immune to it, however," he assured her vehemently. "Your brother may have been…difficult to get along with at times, but he was…_good_. He would have grown into a fine man."

"And it's because of magic that he's gone." Hawke looked up at him through her dark bangs like a whipped dog; like a slave who knew she had displeased her master. "Because of _me_."

"There was nothing more you could do for him, Hawke," he insisted. "The darkspawn took his life, not you."

"And is magic not the cause of darkspawn? Aren't people like me the reason they plague our world to begin with?" she responded bitterly. "Aren't _you_ the one who is always reminding me that every mage should be held accountable for the mistakes made by a few of us?" She fell to her knees.

"Am I _truly_ blameless?" Hawke asked the mud near the elf's scarred feet, her voice fraught with anger and misery. "If I hadn't been born this way, we wouldn't have even _needed _to go on this blighted expedition. We both could have gotten _normal_ work doing a _normal_ trade, and we could be sitting at home together right now. Carver could be _alive_! He could be-"

"Enough!" Fenris exclaimed sharply, kneeling in the down in the dirt with her. "There is no point in dwelling on such things, Hawke."

The mage snagged him by the wrist and brought his hand to her throat, just as she had the night he'd let her magic touch him. She pressed the sharp talons of his gauntlet into her neck cruelly. He tried to tug his hand back, but she held him fast. Fenris could easily have broken away from her, but he was afraid of using his full strength and hurting her. Once he stilled, Hawke extended the hand she being holding him with and summoned a plume of bright blue mana which danced and shivered above her narrow callused palm.

"Am I not everything you despise?" the dark haired apostate asked him tremulously, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Don't you hate that the woman who you feel indebted to is a mage?" Her deep gray eyes bored into him, anguished and imploring and glazed with the flickering sapphire light of her magic. "Why would you want to save me?"

Fenris gingerly pulled her outstretched hand to him and pressed it flat against his breastplate. He gave and involuntary gasp as the last pulse of her mana swept through him, igniting his markings for a few blindingly bright seconds before it ebbed away. He wobbled dangerously for a moment more before he finally found his voice.

"You forget that I have seen what you are, Hawke," the former slave said, his breath coming in shallow ragged gulps. He froze her with the brutal honesty lurking in his intense green gaze. Fenris didn't sugarcoat the truth; it was one of the things Raen had always liked about him.

"And what am I?" she asked him quietly.

"Loud, mostly." He huffed in amusement. "And reckless as well as stubborn…and far too nosy for your own good. And your jokes are terrible."

"You make me sound like such a catch," Hawke commented wryly, but the corner of her mouth twitched with the ghost of her usual grin.

"You are also compassionate," the elf continued in a more serious vein, "and brave. You exhibit remarkable control of your magic…and…."

"And?" she asked him, curiosity and the faintest trace of something like hope blooming on her face. Fenris moved his hand up from her throat to cup her cheek briefly before pulling away.

"You have a good heart, Hawke," he told her simply. She withdrew her own hand from his chest, balling it into a fist on her knee as her body was wracked with a fresh wave of silent tears. Fenris watched pensively, uncertain how to interpret this sudden shift in back into sorrow. Had he said something wrong?

"I-" she sputtered after a moment, her eyes wild and pleading, "I would have _died_ to save him." Fenris smiled at her sadly.

"I know."

* * *

><p>AN: Ouch, my heart. Anyway, the words to Carver's lullaby are a (very) slightly edited version of the poem '<em>Japanese<em> _Lullaby' _by Eugene Field.


	9. On the Mend

AN: Geeze! Anders was SUCH a whine baby throughout the entire process of writing this chapter I almost wanted to punch him in the face. And...Inquisition came out. And a certain...grumpy sweater-wearing elf mage has sort of decided to camp out int the creative center of my brain and wouldn't let me work on anything else. Apologies. Enjoy!

Rated M: nothing except more sadness. *sigh*

Disclaimer: The world of Thedas still isn't mine, even though I wished really hard at Christmastime. Alas.

* * *

><p>He almost tripped over her when he went to put out the lanterns, and even then he did not recognize her. Slumped in the filth of Darktown, she looked as ragged and lost as everyone else who frequented these streets.<p>

"Can I help you?" he asked gently. More often than he liked, he would find a woman or a child out here, too ashamed or scared to come inside but too desperate to leave. She peered up at him slowly, her wide eyes storm-colored and vacant.

"Anders?" Her voice was small, uncertain, the whisper of a dream. His sleep had been full of that voice, of the scent of her, the sunlight in her dark hair. Later, she had haunted him with screams of anguish as the monsters of the deep cut her down, her smooth pale skin blotched and puckered with the Darkspawn corruption, her waxy sightless eyes accusing him as the flesh rotted from her bones.

He had been so sure he'd led her to her death with those blighted Warden maps of his. Aveline had sent him a message from Hightown two weeks ago, stating that Bartrand's exhibition had returned…and that neither Hawke nor any of her companions had been with him. He knew it was what she'd asked for, but he felt responsible all the same.

"Hawke!" he all but shouted, relief and joy washing over him in a sudden torrent, "Is that really you?" He took a hasty step forward, reaching out to touch her, hold her... something. He halted before he could make a fool of himself, though he wasn't sure if it was Justice's intervention or the harrowed expression on her face that saved him.

"It's me." She gave a mirthless bark of laughter. "What's left anyway."

"Are you injured?" he almost yelped in dismay. If she had gotten the taint….

"No. No, I'm fine…I'm always fine." She waved him off, and glanced around nervously. "Can we…go inside?"

"Of course!" he said warmly, putting out the lanterns and ushering her into his dingy clinic.

"Sorry to camp outside your doorstep." The dark haired mage sighed, sounding weary. "I just…couldn't think of anywhere else to go."

"You're always welcome here, Hawke." Anders frowned, a little hurt that she would think he might turn her away.

"Even when we've been fighting like cats and dogs?"

He heard the smile in her voice as he lit the sparse candle stubs around his clinic, but even that sounded tired, tired and sad.

"More like family, don't you think?" He turned back to her, trying to make his smile encouraging. He knew she didn't approve of Justice, and her opinion on mage freedoms tended to be more…moderate than his. She wanted a compromise, and he was all but certain that there wasn't one to be had. He nagged at her like a fishwife, and she scolded him like a naughty child, and for all their similarities, they found themselves chaffing against one another more often than not. But still she filled his dreams.

He wanted her, there was no doubt about that, in an all-consuming way that he had not felt for anyone since long before Justice had claimed half of himself. He knew that if the fade spirit had not been part of the equation, he would have been using every scrap of his rugged charm to magic his way into Hawke's small clothes, trying to turn one sort of friction between them into another much more pleasurable kind. Once this goal had been achieved, he most likely would have been running for the hills a few weeks later, too scared of being tied down to worry about a little thing like breaking someone's heart. She was worth more than that, more than a causal fling and a few nights of passion, more than a thrice cursed man with a life of broken promises, more than everything he had been and whatever it was he had become now. He baulked when he finally got a good look at her face.

"You told me you weren't hurt!" he accused, though his voice held more concern than heat. He reached a hand full of healing magic and good intentions out towards the angry red welt blooming on her left cheek only to have it swatted away.

"I'm keeping it," she said defiantly, tilting her chin away from his still hovering fingers. "I could have healed it myself if I wanted to."

"Now you sound like a child," he admonished, smiling at her stubbornness. "Why let your face swell up like a melon if you don't have to?"

"Because I earned it," she bit out mulishly.

"I know you have a habit of running into people who want to kill you," the apostate laughed, "but I hardly think templars or bandits would have settled for a good slap in the face." His expression soured when her only response was to stare at her feet, shamefaced and silent.

"Was it that elf?" he growled, suddenly angry. "If that beast struck you, Hawke, I swear I'll-"

"It wasn't Fenris." She cut him off, the hollowness creeping back into her tone. "It was my mother."

"Your mother?" he mimicked, disbelieving. "I can't imagine Leandra ever raising a hand to one of her own children. What happened?"

Wordlessly, she held out her arms to him. He studied them in confusion. They were much the same as ever, pale and wiry beneath the thin linen of her shirt, though today she had apparently opted to wear bracers instead of her usual fingerless gloves. They were a thick, worn leather, a bit bulky for a mage, truth be told. Even with the buckles cinched as tight as possible, they were loose about her slender limbs. He wasn't sure why she even bothered wearing them; they seemed far more suited to a warrior than- and then it hit him.

"Carver." It was all he could do to whisper the name with his heart hammering in his throat the way it was. There were no kind deaths in the deep roads. However Hawke's little brother had met his end, it was dark and lonely and full of pain.

"Hawke, I'm so sorry-," he tried, stepping towards her to attempt some kind of comforting touch. She stepped away from him, her face twisted in rage and grief.

"I killed him," she said bluntly, her voice hot and thick with unshed tears. As quick as they had come, he saw her drawing her emotions back, pulling her heart away from him like a wave receding from the shore.

"You can't blame yourself, Hawke," he told her gently.

"No more than Aveline blames herself for Wesley," she retorted, sounding numb. Her face was as distant and empty as a Tranquil mage's. The thought made him shudder.

"Bartrand locked us in, and Carver-," she faltered at his name "he…the darkspawn…the darkness took him. I had to…I _had_ to."

"Maybe we should sit down?" The healer suggested quietly, gesturing at a nearby cot and grasping blindly for ways to console her. He'd never had any siblings, as far as he knew, and all he remembered of his mother was long honey-colored hair and the scent of lavender. '_And crying. In my dreams she is always crying._' He didn't know what it felt like to have a brother, or a sister, or really any kind of relative, let alone the ache of losing a person you had cared for their entire life.

Hawke wordlessly hopped up onto the plank-like bed he had led her to and began swinging her long legs back and for lazily. He stood next to her, leaning on one elbow and watching her stare blankly down at her hands. The Hawke he knew was never sad. She was angry, irritating, reckless, stubborn, buoyant, and righteous, but never sad. '_Unless someone mentioned her sister…_' He hated seeing her this way. Anders knew there was no spell to mend a broken heart, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try.

Raen watched listlessly for a few minutes as the blond mage opened and closed his mouth over and over again like a fish trying to breathe out of water. His gaze was warm and worried and eager to make her feel better, and for all his grumbling about being a cat person, Hawke found that Anders' big brown eyes reminded her very strongly of Porthos. She almost laughed at that…_almost_. It was clear that he was desperate to find the words that would end her aching, but there were none. No spell could turn back the hands of time, and no potion could cure Carver of death. She suddenly found herself an only child, and it cut at her heart more sharply than any dagger. She twisted her father's ring around her finger.

"Was it like this…with Karl?"

He blinked at her in surprise.

"I…hadn't spoken to Karl in years," Anders admitted with a bit of a catch in his throat, obviously caught off guard. "Things ended…badly between us. I'm not sure how he even heard I had become a Warden."

"But you had been close before that?" Hawke insisted.

"Well…I guess you could say that," the healer acknowledged cautiously, "Though I'm not sure our brand of intimacy is quite what you're imagining. There's no place for committed relationships in the Circle."

"You were _lovers_?" Raen blinked up at her friend with a sudden wave of understanding…and pity. And more than a little confusion. "But I thought I heard about you and Isabela…." Her eyes trailed away from him, heat creeping up her face.

"We all dealt with the imprisonment of the Tower in our own ways," he told her, his eyes deep and melting, "but most of us sought peace in whatever arms would hold us. Feeling close to someone, even if you can't keep it…feeling human and accepted and alive and almost…almost _normal_. Well, it was a hard thing to resist."

"Did you have any family?" Hawke asked, feeling inexplicably shy. She had known this man for almost half a year and had never felt like as much of a sheltered country bumpkin as she did right now. Nothing was going to close the gaping wound Caver's death had left in her chest, but she had just felt like such a miserable whining baby crying about it to Fenris who had nothing to claim in this world but the clothes on his back, a well-used great sword, and memories of a life in servitude that had been so unbearably horrific that she didn't even have the stomach to fathom it. Anders had at least _chosen_ to be where he was, he had friends and contacts, and even if it wasn't exactly a castle in Orlais, he had grown up well fed and sheltered from the elements in the Tower. She thought they would have had more in common.

"I had parents." He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "Neither of them seemed particularly pleased to discover my…_talents_. But no siblings. Not that I know of anyway…. I never heard from them after I went to the Circle." He gave her the ghost of a smile. "I was always a bit jealous of you and Carver, even with all the fights you got into. Before I got sent to the Circle, I used to pester my mother about wanting a little brother. I think I really just wanted someone to boss around. A sister would have been nice too. Our house was always too quiet, and I'd get bored all by myself."

Wordlessly, Hawke reached up and touched his face. Anders' eyes widened in surprise, but he did not pull away.

She summoned her mana and thought of Bethany, sweet and smiling, looking up at her in wonder when she mastered one of her first spells. She remembered the times they'd gone swimming together in a pond near their farmhold, both of them scrawny blooming girls teaming with giggles and impatient to discover the adventures life held for them. Raen could still recall the feeling of her sister's delicate hand clutching her own, cool and slippery and safe, as they waded into the deeper water. The way Bethany's hair floated around her face like a soft black shadow as the sun played across her pale skin and she smiled up at the summer sky with her eyes closed, her red lips parted just so. They had told their secrets to the passing clouds, and thought themselves invincible.

Hawke thought of Carver, scowling and strong and always protective. In her mind, he would forever be young and impulsive, his face smeared with blackberries and mischief gleaming in his bright blue eyes. He had nailed Bethany's braid to the bed, filled Raen's boots with nettles, and always seemed to disappear before their mother could tell him to wash the dishes. And his love had been just as fierce and petulant as he was. She remembered the time at the local tavern in Lothering right after their father had passed away, and she had decided to get completely piss drunk and flirt with anything in a suit of armor. Her little brother had stomped in sometime after midnight to find her half way out of her shirt trying to put the come hither on a templar. Without a word, he had thrown her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and hauled her home, not even pausing when she puked down the back of his tunic. She had screamed and flailed and cursed at him the whole way, even though some part of her knew she should be grateful. Hawke had never thanked him for that...and now she never would.

Thinking of Carver brought on a wave of newer, much less pleasant memories, like the weight of the stones they had laid over him after he was gone. He had looked like he was merely sleeping, his mouth open slightly, his face still boyish and serene; she had half expected him to mumble something about her awful singing. Placing that final rock over his face had been difficult, like some horrible kind of magic trick that made her little brother disappear. Before it he had been her grumbling slumbering sibling, and afterwards he was only a corpse. No- less than that: a grave. All his heroic childhood dreams had amounted to nothing more than bones and rubble. Her brother was a pile of stones left in the Deep Roads, his soul left there to strengthen the ancient Dwarven thaigs. And who was left to strengthen her?

A warm hand squeezed her shoulder, snapping her back into the present.

"You're crying," Anders told her softly, cupping her cheeks and carefully wiping at her tears with his thumbs. She gave a short wet-sounding chuckle.

"You too." She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes. The mage touched his own face and seemed surprised at the moisture it left on his fingers.

"What _was_ that, exactly?" he asked, slightly awed.

"What did it feel like?"

"What did it...hm," he paused to consider. "It felt like...summer. Warmth and something bubbly...like laughter. Then...something harder. Gnawing...like worry or uncertainty... Doubting, but...sturdy, caring." Hawke's expression had lightened as he spoke and he smiled with profound relief. "It felt like love, Hawke."

"We figured it out on accident," Raen said in a quiet voice. "One of the village boys was telling a ghost story, and Bethany was afraid. I reached over and took her hand. Her mana flared a bit, she was still learning to control it, and...I could _feel_ it. The tightness in her chest, the urge to run... It was our secret."

Raen's mind wandered back to the incident with Fenris, and how the lyrium in his skin had set the magic within her on fire. The burning images of all he was had torn through her mind like a pack of feral dogs. She had never stopped to consider that it might be similar to the soft way the Hawke sisters had shared their girlish hopes and fears. There had been no intent, no control, and the terrible gut-wrenching sensation of falling off a cliff. She still didn't fully understand what had passed between them, she wasn't sure that she wanted to.

"Telepathy?" Anders asked, sounding amazed. Hawke shook her head.

"It isn't that specific," she told him. "You can't give someone instructions or anything like that, but if you concentrate on a strong feeling...something about the empathetic nature of healing magic seems to pick up on it, like finding a wound on a patient. And it only seems to work if both mages have been taught in a similar way. I wasn't sure it would work with you."

"You've tested this?" he asked curiously.

"I tried it on Merrill once without telling her what I was doing," Hawke admitted sheepishly, "but it didn't seem to do anything. I'm not sure if it was because she is a blood mage, or the fact that she isn't a healer, or simply because she was trained in Dalish magic instead of what they teach in the circles."

Anders almost hated to mention what had come next. "Then...when it began to feel heavy...and sharp? ...it felt like pain and wretchedness and a sense of falling." He placed his hand back on her shoulder, "And then you started crying."

"_Carver_-" was all that managed to break past her lips as her face crumpled back into misery and he pulled her firmly into his arms. He rocked her gently as she sobbed, loud and stuttering, a child's heartbroken wail muffled by the soft feathers of his pauldrons. He traced soothing patterns onto her back, using the tiniest flicker of magic to smooth away the knots in her muscles and the soreness in her joints, even if it could do nothing to ease the steady aching in her soul.

Anders hummed some nameless tune from his childhood, just letting her be sad, and she gripped the back of his coat fiercely while struggling to pull enough air into her burning lungs. Eventually, her tears ebbed along with all the strength left in her body, leaving her slumped listlessly in his embrace.

"Could you have saved him?" She whispered in a jagged voice after what seemed like an eon of silence.

"I'm no better at healing than you are, Hawke," Anders told her gently, his heart thudding roughly in his chest, exulting at her nearness.

"But you're a _Warden_!" Hawke exclaimed, reeling back far enough to look him in the eye. "Surely you must have some way to help people who have contracted the Blight!"

"Becoming a Grey Warden can save someone from the taint, but only for a time," the healer said patiently, "and the joining isn't exactly safe." He stroked her hair consolingly. "Even if he had survived all of that, being a Warden is a hard life. Brutal, really. Usually the kindest thing for someone who has caught the darkspawn corruption is the mercy of a blade."

"You don't get to say that!" Raen said hotly, shoving weakly at his chest, "Not when it could have saved him!"

"Hawke, I'm not saying I wouldn't have _tried_!" the blond mage scrambled to explain, clearly aghast. "I couldn't have preformed the joining on my own, but I would have sought out Wardens who could. I would have scoured the Deep Roads for them. I would have helped you heal him until every last flicker of hope for Carver's life had been extinguished. I _swear_ it!" She blinked up at him with those wide stormy eyes still rimmed with tears, and he did his best to convey the earnestness of his words in his expression. Then Hawke leaned forward tentatively and kissed him. And the whole world froze.

It was closed-mouthed and soft, searching. The kiss was a question, a distraction, a desperate plea for escape. Hawke threaded her fingers into his hair, tugging him closer when he didn't immediately demand a release. He groaned when she deftly slid her tongue into his mouth, completely at her mercy. She smelled like sweat and grime and leather, her hair was lank and greasy, and her lips were slightly chapped, and _Maker's breath_ how he wanted her.

But he knew, even without Justice's nagging, that this wasn't right. Hawke was using sex as a ploy to avoid the darkness left in the wake of her brother's death, and while he certainly had no room to judge her for it, he knew in her heart of hearts that she didn't really want this. She didn't really want _him_.

She wanted to use him as a means of forgetting, and in another life, it wouldn't have bothered him a jot. In fact, there was a distinct possibility that some part of him would have rejoiced at the free pass into her small clothes that offered such a graceful means of fleeing later. Hawke would 'let him down easy', explaining that she had been upset, and he would look at her with sad brave puppy eyes and tell her that he understood, and they would go back to being friends.

But Anders couldn't be that man anymore, especially not for Hawke. Andraste save him, but he was falling for her; he had been since the night they had tried to save Karl, and she had slapped him in his own clinic. He couldn't just make love to her and pretend that it had meant nothing. She could never be that to him now, even if Justice would have allowed such a tryst. And he had no means of asking, expecting, or deserving more from her. Overflowing with regret, he finally managed to stumble away from the sweet temptation of her mouth.

"It's late," he said hoarsely, not meeting her gaze. "We should get you home; your mother will be worried."

"Anders-" Hawke tried, but he walked over to the door and collected his staff without a backward glance.

"I'll walk you," he said quietly, looking down at his boots. She hopped down off the cot she had been sitting on and walked to his side, blushing like mad and feeling like a fool.

What had she really expected? After his initial response to her attempts at flirtation, the man had always brushed her off, albeit somewhat sadly. She had just assumed he was playing hard to get. Raen had been sure there had been some sort of attraction simmering underneath their arguments, but apparently she was mistaken. And now she looked like a total ass on top of everything else. Throwing herself at a man who wasn't even interested in her right after her baby brother died? _Balls._

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, just before they stepped out into the dingy streets of Darktown, Anders reached over and loosely grasped her hand. Raen blinked down at them in amazement, uncertain how to interpret the gesture. She glanced up and noticed a bright swath of pink emerging across the blond apostate's high cheekbones as he resolutely continued to avoid her eyes. She twined their fingers together, and gave his hand a grateful squeeze as they stepped out into the night. And for the first time in what seemed like ages, Hawke smiled.


	10. Queen of Diamonds, Two of Hearts

AN: Well, hot damn. This chapter really wanted to happen. I blame Isabela. Finally Act II! AW YEAH.

Rated M: Because Isabela

Disclaimer: BioWare owns Thedas, Tra la la la!

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><p><strong>Act II<strong>

"You need to get laid," Isabela helpfully informed Hawke as she sauntered into her friend's library and draped herself across the back of the chair the apostate was occupying. Raen glanced up at the pirate and was met with an eyeful of barely concealed bosom. She gave a grating sigh.

"Was that an offer, or a professional opinion?" the mage asked mildly as she turned back to her book. She had found a manuscript written by the elf Shartan in one of the Lowtown bazaars, and thus far, it was a fairly good read. Hawke vaguely wondered if Fenris might be interested in it. Hell, he could have it as far as she was concerned. Maker knew he could probably use something to occupy his time other than scowling at the fireplace in his room and drinking his way through his mansion's wine cellar.

The rogue snatched the tome from her with deft brown fingers and tossed it over her shoulder.

"Can't it be both?" she asked sweetly, smirking at Hawke's disgruntled expression.

"As charming and _selfless_ as you are, I'm afraid I'll have to pass," Raen replied, rolling her eyes. "I've heard about some of the other…ports you've docked in, and I'd prefer to forego an uncomfortable visit to Anders to try and get rid of some mysterious rash."

"Tch," the duelist complained. "You've been no fun since Carver died." Hawke's face darkened, warning flashing in her eyes.

"Don't." She said flatly.

"You miss him. I understand. We all do," Isabela continued, her tone a little softer. "But you can't just spend the rest of your nights cooped up, not letting yourself have a life just because he can't have one. It's been almost three years! Your nethers are going to pickle and you'll turn into another Aveline if you don't do something to loosen up soon."

"I'm just trying to take care of my mother," Hawke protested.

"You live in a mansion!" Isabela laughed, sweeping her arms wide as she gestured to the rest of the house. "You have servants, a title, and more coin than you can shake a stick at; what else could you possibly do for her?"

"She…wants me to get married," Hawke mumbled, staring down at her lap. The Rivaini scrunched up her face in disgust.

"Right, that settles it then," the former sea captain said firmly, as she took Hawke's hands and dragged her out of her chair. "You and your shortest skirt are going to spend the evening with me, Merrill, and that ginger-haired battle-axe of a guard captain. We're going to go to the Blooming Rose, and if you don't at least get a lap dance, I will _never_ speak to you again."

"Is that a promise?" Raen asked, laughing. "You're never going to talk Aveline into willingly entering a brothel."

"Three silvers says I can," the rogue said with confidence and a wicked grin.

"Done," Hawke answered, clasping the pirate's hand to cement the deal. "Five if you can get her into a dress while you're at it."

"Ooh, I like the way you think," Isabela said gleefully, mischief shining in her tawny eyes. "You're on!"

A few hours later Hawke showed up at the Blooming Rose in a pair of snug leather breeches and a shirt that dipped low enough in the front that her mother had given her a disapproving frown as she walked out the door. Her friends were waiting at the bar, and much to her surprise, Aveline had decided to grace them with her presence. An even greater surprise was the fact that the six foot tall brick wall of a woman, was _not_ the one who seemed the most out of place.

Merrill had opted to wear some sort of billowy yellow sundress, with a high-necked collar and long ballooned sleeves. She looked like she was either about to get married, or slowly turning into an Orlesian pastry. It was utterly adorable, thoroughly ridiculous, and a trifle unnerving to see the little bright eyed Dalish woman surrounded by drunks and prostitutes.

"You're late!" Isabela declared imperiously, gesturing with her full tankard and sloshing ale onto the Guard Captain's trousers. Aveline grumbled out a string of curse words and gave the pirate her trademark glare, which was easily countered by the rogue's trademark disregard. "And you owe me money. You're already two rounds behind!"

"I went by Fenris' house," Hawke explained, taking the pint her fellow Fereldan passed to her. "I had something I wanted to give him."

"Looking like that, I bet he had something he wanted to give _you_, too!" the Rivaini crowed with a lecherous grin. Hawke nearly choked on her ale.

"That's not-" Raen sputtered, embarrassment blooming on her face.

"Is it flowers?" Merrill chirped excitedly, cutting her off. "You like flowers, don't you, Hawke? I've seen you stop and pick those little white ones that look like bells sometimes."

"Andraste's Grace," Hawke told the elf with a relieved smile. "Yes. They don't grow much here, but they were practically rampant in the Bannorn at springtime. They smell like home."

"So, Fenris _did_ get you flowers?!" The little blood mage gasped, her big green eyes practically dancing with delight. "Oh, that's so romantic! I didn't even know he liked you that way! Did he pick them himself? Because I can't really imagine him going out and-"

"_Merrill_." Hawke groaned.

"Oh, Kitten." Isabela sighed, shaking her head and smiling.

"What?" The elf asked, genuinely confused. "Did I...miss something dirty again?"

"I don't think Fenris likes much of anything." Aveline pointed out dryly. "He's very... _Qunari_ that way."

"You reckon that's the _only_ way he's like them?" Isabela asked, licking her lips hungrily. "Two coppers says the sword he polishes in bed is just as big as the one he lugs around all day."

"But I thought he only had the one sword and-...oh. _Oh!_" Merrill squeaked out the last word, her face a blaze of scarlet. She buried her face in her hands soon afterwards and groaned. "Creators...the image is burned behind my eyes now."

"Ugh!" Aveline complained. "Maker's breath, me too."

"You're welcome!" The pirate said smugly, slinging an arm around both of their necks.

"If you expect me to sit here and listen to you talk about the private bits of every man we know, I am going to need a _lot_ more alcohol." Raen informed her bluntly.

"You heard the woman!" Isabela hooted, summoning the barkeeper with a wave of her hand.

Two hours and several glasses of various types of booze had Raen more drunk than she'd been since she'd stepped off the boat in the Gallows four years ago. It was marvelous. And great! Everything was great.

"And then he says…_he_ says, '_I don't care! I'd drown us in blood to keep you safe!_'" Hawke said in a bumbling attempt to mimic Anders' voice, scrunching her brows and trying to look serious.

"What, really?" Isabela sniggered.

"Gross." Aveline said with a bark of laughter.

"S'not dangerous," Merrill mumbled from the pirate's lap. She had been mostly passed out since the fourth round of drinks. "I know what I'm _doing_."

"Of course you do, Kitten." The Rivaini said off-handedly, patting the elf on the head. She then turned her amber gaze back to Hawke, an impish grin curling on her full lips. "_So_. Then what happened?"

"Wha'chu mean?" Hawke asked blearily. "I told him to calm down, 'cause…because I didn't want to him to lose himself to Justice _or_ the templars."

"_And_?" Isabela gasped out in excitement.

"And then he got stroppy with me an buggered off." Raen said with a shrug. "What'd you expect?"

"Ugh." The pirate sighed in disgust. "Why are my friends so boring?" She turned to Aveline. "How about you Captain Prudy-pants? Get anything good lately?"

"As if I'd tell _you_," The red head scoffed.

"Tch. Well, if nobody's got any more stories we'll have to settle for idle gossip." The rogue stated matter-of-factly. Aveline and Hawke groaned simultaneously.

"Spill." Isabela demanded gleefully, choosing Hawke as her victim. She reached across their table and grasped the mage's elbow with strong brown fingers, yanking her a bit closer so she could whisper not-so-quietly into her ear. "Which one of our dashing compatriots has caught your fancy, hm?"

"What? _No_! I don't-" Raen tried to argue, but it was all in vain. The nosy rogue would not be deterred from her prize.

"No use lying to me, Sweet-cheeks. I've got a sixth sense for this kind of thing. Plus, you're blushing; an obvious tell. Now _spill_." The pirate laughed at her friend's expense. "What's wrong? Is it me? …Oh! Is it Varric? _Tell _me it's Varric!"

"What? _No_. He's like my short hairy brother, that would be so weird." Hawke said with a disgusted look, sticking out her tongue.

"Yes, those lovely wide shoulders, all that glorious chest hair, and those thick _dexterous_ fingers…_completely_ unappealing." Isabela purred with an arched brow and knowing quirk to her lips. Hawke made a retching sound, Aveline rolled her eyes, and Merrill hiccuped quietly.

"Alright, alright…what about that Prince fellow? Sebastian. Noble title, blue eyes, nice bum, and so boring your mother is sure to love him." The Rivaini asked.

"Right, because the first thing I look for in a man is borderline fanatical devotion to the Chantry. Every apostate _dreams_ that someday their one true love will throw them in a prison and give them the brand. _So_ romantic." Raen sighed dramatically and batted her eyelashes. "Besides," she continued. "I'm fairly certain Sebastian is actually somewhat afraid of me."

"So, I guess that means what's-his-face is out…you know, the templar. The pretty one." Isabela said, scrunching her face a bit as she tried to remember.

"Knight Captain Cullen?" Aveline asked. Hawke gaped at her in amazement. The Guard Captain shrugged. "What? I have eyes. He is…nice to look at." She was blushing so furiously that her freckles had vanished into the red of her burning cheeks.

"He is at that." The rogue agreed with a wistful sigh. "He can lock me up any day, so long as it comes with a good honest_ smiting_ every now and then."

Hawke spat out her ale as she fought down her laughter.

"Is that a 'no', then?" Isabela asked.

"Yes, that's a no!" Raen exclaimed, still wrestling with her giggles. "No templars here. Not even…_pretty_ ones." She waggled her eyebrows at Aveline, who shoved her shoulder in retaliation.

"So. Mages then." The Rivaini continued mercilessly. "Not many of those outside the Gallows, and since I'm doubting it's the kitten in my lap, that means it must be..." Hawke could feel her ears burning. "..._Anders_." Isabela's smile was triumphant. "Gotcha!"

"T-there's nothing between me and Anders!" Hawke sputtered desperately.

The unbidden memory of their kiss surfaced in her mind for the first time in ages. She generally tried _not_ to think about it, to be perfectly honest. He had smelled like smoke and healing herbs, and everything about him had been so…gentle. His soft lips parting to her hasty tongue, the quiet moan he had poured into her eager mouth…heady and empowering. Anders was kind, _too_ kind. He had been ready to sacrifice himself to her selfish wantonness, but his instincts as a Healer had saved them both. Sleeping with him wouldn't have made her feel any better about Carver, and their already volatile friendship would likely have been damaged beyond repair. She was glad he had stopped her, but it didn't make her any less embarrassed about it, even years later.

"Doesn't mean you don't _want_ something to be between you!" The dark skinned rogue all but cackled in delight. "To be honest, I don't really blame you. He's got that whole, 'scruffy rebel' thing going on. All that passionate selflessness, those dark soulful eyes, that clever tongue, those _magic_ hands…mmm. Did I tell you about the time-"

"_Yes!_" Hawke and Aveline groaned loudly in unison. Merrill mumbled something about halla cheese.

"Hawke," Aveline began, fiddling with the mug between her hands and casting a worried glance at her friend. "Anders has done good work for the refugees here, I'll not deny it, but…he's not a safe man. He's no one you should think about trying to build a life with."

"Spoil-sport," Isabela cut in, frowning in disapproval. "Don't let this ball-crusher ruin your fun, Hawke. Nobody said you had to _marry_ him."

"No?" the red head asked angrily. "And what happens when Hawke has had her bit of fun and tries to break it off? What if Justice decides her actions were unfair in some way? Do you think they'll just sit down and discuss it calmly over tea and biscuits? They barely get along as it is!"

"_Clearly_ the answer is for her to become an old maid like _you_!" the Rivaini snarled, slamming her hand on the table. "Someone so afraid of heartache that she never has any sort of life outside of looking out for her mother and pissing around with us."

"Shut up, _whore_!" Aveline growled, jerking to her feet and leaning over the table threateningly.

"Make me, _prig_!" Isabela shouted back, standing up sharply and sending poor Merrill tumbling to the floor.

"What did I miss?" The Dalish mage asked groggily as she peeked up over the edge of the table, rubbing gingerly at her head.

"Isabela and Aveline are having an argument about my non-existent relationship with Anders." Hawke explained tiredly.

"Oh." The elf said, sounding a bit confused. "But I thought you liked Fenris? You two are always spending time together, and he actually seems to like you. Sort of. As much as Fenris likes anyone…which isn't a lot."

"We're just friends." Hawke laughed.

"But Fenris says he doesn't want any friends…" Merrill said dubiously.

"Fenris is lonely," Hawke told her quietly, a soft smile sneaking up on her face. "Even if he doesn't think he is. He has had to drag himself up from the absolute bottom of everything a person could be born into, and it's horrific and…admirable beyond words. He's a good man who doesn't know how to go about being good. But he _wants_ to be, and I'd like to help him, if I can."

Merrill giggled.

"What?" Raen asked, baffled by her friend's reaction.

"Oh, Hawke." Aveline sighed, shaking her head and smiling.

"_What?_" The apostate repeated, something like horror creeping into the pit of her stomach. She glanced at Isabela who was looking more and more like the cat who had gotten into the cream with each passing moment. The rogue's tawny eye's sparkled in victory. Hawke felt the heat crawling up her neck. _Oh_.

Hawke buried her face in her hands. "_Shit_."


	11. Good for What Ails You

AN: Hello wonderful readers! I got you this chapter that wasn't even supposed to happen. I was literally typing up my bitter pill chapter when I realized there was a plot hole...so here is some fluffy filler! *unenthusiastic cheering*

Rated: ...the worst you might get from this is a toothache. Maybe T for some belligerent Fenris? I dunno.

Disclaimer: BioWare owns all of my boyfriends. It is putting a strain on our polygamous relationship.

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><p>"Fenris?" Hawke's voice cut through the hazy fog of sleep like a rusty saw. The elf groaned loudly and pressed his face farther into the cool ceramic tiles on the floor. He could feel his pulse throbbing angrily behind his eyelids like a hammer pounding a nail into a piece of wood. Every step the Ferelden apostate took towards him was deafening. Maybe if he held still and wished hard enough she would simply go away.<p>

"Well well, look at you," the mage said flatly, clearly unimpressed. "Are you and Isabela in some kind of race to see which one of you can destroy your liver the fastest?"

Fenris grumbled something darkly in Arcanum and tried to roll away from her. Hawke stepped lightly over his prone form and gazed down at him with her arms folded tightly across her chest, sporting a severely arched brow and a disapproving frown. He suspected she had never looked more like Leandra in the entire course of her life.

"You were supposed to meet us at the Hanged Man this morning," she informed him, sounding irritated. "Remember the Arishok? Big fella, likes to scowl and show off his rack? He asked to see me. By name. And you're the only person I know who even comes close to understanding all that Qun craziness." She gave a disappointed sigh. "I really could have used your help today, Fenris."

The former slave tried to push himself up into a sitting position so that he could properly apologize, but his arms felt like lead. He gave an involuntary tremble as cold sweat slid down the back of his neck. He could taste a sour bile rising in the back of his mouth. After four failed attempts to rise, he gave up and surrendered to his fate: a lifetime spent sprawled out on the dirt encrusted tiles of his rundown mansion.

"Come on," Hawke grunted, drawing one of his arms across her shoulders and trying to haul him to his feet. He didn't even have the strength to flinch away from her touch. "You should at least do your wallowing someplace other than the floor."

They hadn't made it three steps towards his bed before he heaved the remnants of his scant dinner down the front of his tunic. And the floor. And his bare feet. Not to mention Hawke's favorite pair of boots. It was a testament to her experience both with sick people and drunkards that she barely batted an eye at his humiliation. Fenris hung his head as she helped him settle onto the thin mattress of his cot.

"So," she began brusquely, "care to tell me what prompted this particular bout of self-destruction?"

"Not particularly," he managed to rasp out as he rolled towards the wall. "Thank you for your assistance, Hawke. Please leave."

"You're going to sleep like that?" she asked incredulously. "You're covered in sick."

"I'll change after you leave," he promised dismissively.

"Right, because I'm obviously going to believe_ that _after watching you helplessly flop around on the floor like a fish." He could practically hear her rolling her eyes at him.

"I hate fish," he grumbled obstinately. Hawke laughed, and it felt like someone was trying to split his skull open with an axe. He choked back a whimper.

"Just tell me where your clothes are and I'll help you into a new tunic." The apostate chuckled. "And since I'm feeling generous, I won't even tell Isabela what color your small clothes are."

He was quiet for a long time. "...Fenris?"

"I do not own a second tunic," he mumbled to his pillow.

"You... What?" Hawke gasped in disbelief. "You get a decent share of coin on a semi-regular basis, you certainly haven't used it for the upkeep of this place...and now you're saying you haven't even bothered to spend it on an extra shirt? What in Andraste's name are you _doing_ with it all?"

The only response she got was an anguished groan.

"You know, I _could_ just heal you," Hawke told him, sounding vaguely amused. "A little wiggle of my fingers and-"

"No magic," he protested gruffly. "Just let me sleep."

"Fine," she said with a quiet huff of laughter. "But I'm at least going to help you get cleaned up." He heard her clattering around the room, presumably in search of a wash basin. Fenris curled tightly into a ball, covered his ears, and silently cursed the fact that one of his closest friends was also a horrendous busybody.

"Sit up for a minute and drink this," Hawke commanded him gently. Cool fingers pressed against his overheated skin, pulling at his shoulder to make him turn towards her. He managed to scoot his way into sitting up with his back slumped against the headboard. She pressed a goblet into his hands and he stared down at it in bleary-eyed suspicion.

"Water," the mage explained when he didn't follow her directions. "You're dehydrated, and this will help. Drink it slowly." He took a tentative sip. It wasn't exactly an instant flood of relief, but it was…better. If nothing else, it helped wash taste of vomit out of his mouth.

When he glanced up at her, Hawke's brow was creased with worry.

"What is it?" he asked hoarsely.

"You're drenched in sweat." She leaned over and pushed the damp white hair back from his eyes before placing her palm flat against his forehead. Fenris shuddered. "And you're feverish. Did you spend the entire night on the floor?"

He shrugged noncommittally. Hawke heaved a weary sigh and handed him a small vial full of a familiar thick red liquid.

"Alright, I'll be back in about an hour," she told him. "In the meantime, I'd like you to take that health potion, it should help with your headache, and continue drinking water. _Slowly_." She gestured to the small table near his bed. "I put your wash bowl here, if you feel like getting some of the puke off of you."

He nodded silently.

"Hawke," he called after her as she walked towards the door. She turned back to see what he wanted. "Why are you doing this?"

She cocked her head in confusion.

"You're sick, aren't you?" she asked.

"So it would seem," he said with an air of sullenness. Hawke laughed.

"I'm a healer," she said with a shrug and a grin. "Should I go get Anders instead?"

He rumbled a vehement string of Tevinter curse words. "_No._"

"That's what I thought." She chuckled as she turned and walked out the door.

Sometime later, Fenris awoke to the sound of Hawke humming softly to herself and the discovery that he had been tucked under the thin blankets of his bed. He had drunk both the potion and the water in her absence, as instructed, and was feeling decidedly less miserable. The pain in his head and subsided to a dull ache, and his stomach, while still tender, had calmed significantly from the churning nausea that set him heaving earlier. He was still exhausted and clammy however, and he simultaneously hoped and feared that the reason his friend was poking around by the fireplace had something to do with food. He would never say it to her face, but the woman was at least twice as dangerous standing over a cooking fire than she would ever be with her stave.

Perhaps sensing his gaze, the mage in question looked over towards his bed and smiled when she noticed that he was now conscious. When she moved away from the hearth to come check on him, he observed that there was definitely a pot of…_something_ brewing over the flames. Nothing smelled like it was burning yet, which was at least somewhat encouraging.

"How are you feeling?" Hawke asked, sitting next to him on the bed to check his temperature again. Fenris was lucid enough to flush with embarrassment when she put her hand on his brow this time. The apostate had taken care of him on dozens of occasions throughout the course of their rather dangerous acquaintance, but never for something so clearly self-inflicted…or stupid.

"Better," he said hoarsely, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Good," she said, sounding pleased. "Your fever seems to have gone down a little. Are you hungry? I'm making an attempt at soup. It should be ready in a few minutes." The elf fought back a grimace.

"Your confidence is overwhelming," the mage commented dryly. She grabbed something near the foot of the bed and held it out to him. "I brought you one of Carver's old sleep shirts. You can borrow it until you've had a chance to clean yours."

Fenris fingered the rough linen uncertainly. It felt wrong to take something that had once belonged to her brother, even if it was only temporary. Even now, Hawke wore his bracers on her arms, the worn leather oiled and tended to lovingly.

"Ah. Right," the apostate sputtered awkwardly as she got up and stumbled back towards the fireplace. There was a strange amount of color rising on her cheeks. "I'll give you some privacy. I should probably be keeping an eye on the food anyway."

The elf's mouth curled in quiet fondness as he studied his friend's silhouette in front of the flames, her arm raised to rub at the back of her head. Hawke was always like that, always sensitive to his...oddities. Fenris enjoyed his privacy, as he had been granted so little of it as a slave, but he hardly needed his friend to treat him so delicately. He supposed that it was just as likely that she simply had no desire to see him half naked if she didn't have to. The thought made him frown.

"It has been more than three years since I came here," he said softly as he undid the toggles of his soiled tunic. "And seven since I first became free of Danarius. Last night was something of a celebration, I suppose."

"Drinking six bottles of wine by yourself and blacking out on the floor? Sounds like a party," Hawke said flippantly. He could see the discomfort in the stiff lines of her shoulders.

"Not my most ingenious plan, I admit," the elf sighed. He pulled the clean shirt over his head and tossed the other carelessly to the floor. "Tell me...what do you do when you stop running?"

"I'll tell you when I find out!" the apostate said with a laugh. She was quiet for a few minutes as she rummaged around in search of something to serve the soup in. She eventually managed to unearth a pair of mismatched wooden bowls that apparently met her standards of cleanliness. He studied her face in profile as she spooned their out their meal, and her expression appeared pensive. "I guess you stop, and take a breath, and start anew."

"I don't know how." the elf admitted with a shrug. "My first memory is receiving these markings, the lyrium being branded into my flesh. The agony wiped away everything. Whatever life I had before I became a slave...it's lost." He shook his head in frustration and turned his face away to glare at the wall. "I shouldn't trouble you with this, my problems are not yours."

"You really don't remember _anything_?" Hawke baulked in dismay, nearly spilling the bowls of soup in her hands as she walked back over to his bedside. "You don't know who you were?"

"Fenris is the name Danarius bestowed upon me. His 'little wolf'," the elf told her with a sneer of disgust. "If I once had another name or a family, then they were taken from me..."

Hawke wordlessly passed him a bowl, and the sorrow in her eyes was palpable. Their fingers brushed against each other during the exchange, and for some insane reason, he was tempted to take her hand. He didn't want her to be sad. Not for him...not for anything. Fenris had never felt like this about someone before, and he wasn't sure what the implications of such a thing might be. His mouth twitched into a puzzled frown.

She wrangled a chair and sat it next to his bed, staring down as she swirled the soup around like she was seeking answers in its depths. He glanced down at his own meal to see chunks of potato and chicken floating in a thin broth. Fenris took a careful sip, ready for anything. The meat was a bit overdone, the vegetables were a little underdone, and the whole thing could have stood few more shakes of salt, but considering that Hawke was the one who had made it, it was remarkably palatable. He told her as much, and she gave him a lopsided grin.

"Can I ask...how you escaped Danarius?" Hawke questioned after a few minutes of quiet eating. "I know you don't like to talk about it much, but-"

"It's fine, Hawke," he assured her. "I may as well mark the occasion in some other manner than slovenly drunkenness." Fenris paused for a moment, trying to sort out where to begin. "You've heard of Seheron? The Imperium and the Qunari have fought over the island for centuries, now. I was there with Danarius during a Qunari attack. I managed to get him to a ship- but there was no room for a slave. I was left behind. I barely got out of the city alive..."

"And he just...left you?" Hawke asked, clearly surprised. "I thought Danarius considered you valuable?"

"He wasn't given a choice," the elf told her with a dark chuckle. "The look on his face when the ship pulled out was _priceless!_" His friend smiled nervously, uncertain if she should laugh or not.

"There are rebels in the Seheron jungle called Fog Warriors. They found me and took me in, nursed me back to health." His mouth quirked in a faint smile as his eyes met hers. "Much like you did, Hawke."

"It's taken me a few years to get to the 'nursing you back to health' bit, and you're the one who found me, if I'm not mistaken." She grinned. He laughed.

"See if I ever try to compliment _you_ again," the former slave told her with a smirk and a roll of his eyes.

"Just because you failed doesn't mean I want you to stop trying," she informed him cheekily, here gray eyes alight with mischief. "So, tell me about these rebels."

"I stayed with them for a time," he explained. "Until Danarius... finally came for me."

"Whether you wanted to go or not I assume," Hawke said with a hard edge of fury on his behalf. "Were you at least with these Fog Warriors willingly?"

"I had grown fond of the rebels," Fenris confessed softly. "They bowed to no master and fought for their freedom. It was...beyond my experience." He swallowed thickly. "When Danarius came, they refused to let him take me."

"I'm liking them more and more," the apostate commented with a grin. Her smile wilted quickly at the expression on his face. "...Fenris?"

"He ordered me to kill them," he told her in a choked whisper, staring fixedly down at his soup bowl. "So I did. I...killed them all."

"Why would you _do_ such a thing?" Hawke gasped in obvious horror.

"It felt inevitable," he said brokenly, burying his face in his hands, sending his half eaten meal clattering to the floor. "My master had returned and this...this _fantasy_ life was over."

"But once it was done," he continued in a jagged voice, apparently unable to help himself. "I looked down at their bodies. I felt...I _couldn't_... I ran. And I never looked back."

She tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. He didn't deserve to be forgiven for this—he didn't _want _to be. He looked up at her helplessly and was met with nothing except pity. He cringed at the sight of it.

"Were you close to these Fog Warriors?" Hawke questioned him gently.

"I knew them only a few months, but in that time I felt as if I truly lived," Fenris told her solemnly as he stared down at his guilty hands, dark and rough against the discolored sheets. "They were...bold. Strong. Free with their affections... I was in awe of them, and owed them everything." He clenched his fingers angrily into the thin coverlet and glared up at his friend with self-loathing twisting painfully behind his eyes. "...and I turned on them even so."

"We've all done things we regret, Fenris," the mage said consolingly.

"Have you wiped out and entire camp full of people who not only saved your life, but then rose to defend it when they could have survived by simply giving you up?" the elf snapped angrily.

"No," she conceded. "But I did kill my own brother."

"It's not the same!" he growled at her. "You had no choice."

"Did you think you had a choice, Fenris?" she asked him quietly.

"I-...no," the former slave admitted with a weary sigh. " At the time, I...You do not dream of freedom when you are a slave, or wonder at possibilities. You think only of your master's desires and what the next hour will bring. It...did not occur to me that I could be anything else until I had a taste of it."

He met Hawke's eyes and held them steadily for a moment, seeking something. She offered him a sad smile and he glowered at her for her trouble. Her expression deflated a bit and she moved her hand as though she had wanted to touch him, but apparently thought better of it. There was shame in that, too; that he couldn't even accept the comfort of a friend without the taint of something from his past spoiling it.

"...I _did_ have a choice," he told her gruffly. "Even though I only realized it later. ...Danarius had already been wounded, and the soldiers he had brought with him would have been no match for the rebels and myself. We could have _beaten_ them. The Fog Warriors could still be alive... and I would now be free."

"You _are_ free," Hawke insisted vehemently.

"With my former master hounding my every step?" Fenris asked with a derisive snort. "You think because he has not made an obvious attempt to capture me within these three short years of our acquaintance that he has given up?" He gave sharp bitter laugh. "_No_. Danarius is an arrogant and devious man...he will come to claim what he thinks is his. Two days, a month, seven years, it matters not. He. Will. Come."

"And we will face him together," the dark haired apostate told him adamantly. "And in the very likely event he fails to see reason, we'll kill him and be done with it."

"Just like that?" The elf blinked at the mage in surprise. This was not the reaction he had been anticipating. Then again, it was hard to know _what_ to anticipate with Hawke. "What if I betray you as well? What if Danarius—"

"Just. Like. That." Hawke cut him off in a firm voice.

"You...are a strange woman, Hawke," he informed her, affection and bafflement warring on his face.

"With even stranger friends!" She laughed.

"A fair enough point," he acknowledged with a thin rueful smile. "I…have never spoken about this. To anyone. …I never wanted to. Thank you, Hawke…for listening."

"Thank _you_ for indulging my rude and invasive questioning even though you don't feel well," Hawke countered with a guilty grin.

"It is no bother," Fenris assured her, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise at the truth of his own words. The mage shook her head at him.

"You're sick and you should be resting, and here I am getting you all riled up…" Her words trailed away as she frowned in disapproval at her own actions. Then she sighed. "You should try to get some more sleep if you're finished eating. Do you want me to stay?"

"Stay?" he echoed dumbly. She was going to sit with him while he slept? She nodded.

"We can work on reading some of your book, if you want to," she suggested.

"I…would like that very much." Fenris smiled at her broadly, showing off white even teeth and crinkling the corners of his green eyes. He had meant to convey his pleasure at the thought of her company, but Hawke nearly fell out of her chair as she scrambled away from him, mumbling something about finding the book. What he could see of her face past the dark curtain of her hair was flushed with bright red embarrassment. The elf furrowed his brow in confusion. Had he said something wrong?

When she returned to her seat beside him with the tome in hand she seemed to have regained her composure, though her cheeks were still a bit pink. Hawke had not laughed when he admitted that he could not read. In fact, if she had been anything, it was righteously indignant. Not with him, of course. She had let out a long stream of utterly filthy descriptions of how Danarius' mother liked to spend her free time, most of it involving goats, and then she'd asked if he wanted to learn.

He had a tenuous grasp on his letters now, and progress in his book on Shartan was almost unbearably slow, but he had chafed at the idea of starting out with children's stories, so here they were. Hawke scooted her chair closer to him, leaning her elbows on the edge of the bed so she could read the book from where it lay in his hands. Fenris carefully sounded out each word, stumbling frequently. Hawke never intervened until he asked for help, or if he managed to completely mangle the way something was pronounced. The work was frustrating, but every new word he conquered felt a bit like giving his former master the middle finger, which he thoroughly enjoyed. Every sentence was a victory, a small triumph over ignorance and inhibitions.

He read until his eyelids grew heavy, sliding further and further down into his pillows. The light from the fireplace had grown soft and dim. Hawke was warm and still beside him, her breathing slow and even. He glanced over and saw that she had slumped over in her chair, her head resting on her arms. The ebony sweep of her hair hand fallen across her face, and he brushed it away and tucked it behind her ear without thinking, wanting to see her. She mumbled something indistinct and nuzzled further into the crook of her elbow, unwittingly moving closer to him. His face broke into a small drowsy smile that his friend was incapable of blushing at. She was so good. And with that last thought, Fenris drifted off to sleep.


	12. A Bitter Pill

AN: *Hysterical screams of excitement* OHMYGOSH you guys, it took SO LONG to get here. Thank you so much to everyone who has Favorited, Followed, and sent encouraging reviews, YOU ALL HELPED ME GET HERE. If you suddenly feel warm and fuzzy, fear not!- you are simply being enveloped in the force of my love. Anywho! Plenty of story left to go, so let's get to it!

Rated: ...*cough*

Disclaimer: Still not making money, here.

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><p>It took a lot more effort than it should have to stagger through her own front door, but Hawke was completely exhausted. There wasn't a single muscle in her body that didn't ache, she felt like she was wearing more bruises than clothes, and to top things off, there was an acrid coppery taste lingering in the back of her mouth. <em>Maker<em>, she hated blood mages, adorable Dalish companions notwithstanding, and Hadriana had to have been one of the nastiest, most persistent, conniving wenches she ever had the misfortune of meeting. She really couldn't muster much sorrow over the woman's rather sudden and gruesome demise.

What happened afterwards however, weighed more heavily on her heart. Hawke was used to Fenris' frequent ire towards magic users in general, and she knew that sometimes he couldn't help but lash out, and that he did it to protect himself more than anything…. But he'd never so blatantly accused _her_ of being the same as the people that had made his life a living hell.

"_-may she rot, and all mages with her!" The elf growled, a tremor running through his smooth deep tones._

"All_ mages, Fenris?" Hawke asked softly, trying not to pin too much hope on those long looks he gave her occasionally when they read together. _

"_Did I stutter?" he snapped._

"_No… I suppose you didn't," she answered faintly, hating how defeated her voice sounded. "I was just kind of hoping that you had forgotten who you were talking to."_

"_I have _not_," he assured her coldly. "There is always some reason, some excuse, for mages to do this. What does magic touch that it does not _spoil_?" _

_Raen felt as if he had slapped her._

"_Yes, I suppose I can see how watching your home get destroyed, or seeing most of your family members die one by one in a variety of awful ways might make a person forget everything they've ever been taught to believe in and toss it in a pit to become a demon's puppet. Perhaps I should spare myself the trouble of waiting to see what will push me over the edge and sign up with one now? Apparently, it's going to happen anyway, right? I just haven't found my _excuse_ yet," the dark-haired mage commented bitterly. _

"_Forget him, Hawke," Anders cut in harshly. "The only wounds he feels are his own."_

"_I…need to get out of here…" the elf mumbled, something close to remorse creeping across his face as he ducked his head to hide behind the white fringe of his bangs. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked away, and for once in her life, Hawke had no idea what to say; she was too panicked by the sudden realization that she might never see him again._

Which was why she was perfectly dumbfounded to find that very elf sitting in her foyer, looking more nervous than Porthos when he knew he'd done something naughty. She stood there for a moment, blinking in confusion, before plunging into what she knew was going to be a painfully awkward conversation.

"Fenris?" she asked, causing him to jump to his feet.

"Hawke, I-" he began stiffly, not meeting her eyes, "I've been thinking about what happened with Hadriana." He shifted from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. "I took out my anger on you, undeservedly so. I was...not myself. I'm sorry. I know that there are points on which our opinions…_differ_, but you are no Magister."

"With Carver gone, there's no one around to remind me every day what a horrible person I am for being born with magic." She shrugged half-heartedly. "I kind of miss it."

He flinched at the obvious jab.

"I can go, if you wish…you need not see me again." He sounded completely miserable, and despite her best efforts, Hawke was simply powerless every time he blinked up at her with those wounded green eyes. '_Stupid elves and their pretty eyes_.'

"I just want to understand what happened today, Fenris." She sighed, removing her staff and travel pack and setting them down near the wall. "I don't think that's too much to ask."

"When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment," he began, spitting out the woman's name like he'd eaten something rotten. "She would ridicule me, deny my meals, _hound_ my sleep…because of her status, I was powerless to respond, and she _knew_ it. The thought of her slipping through my grasp now…. I couldn't let her go…I _wanted_ to, but I _couldn't_."

"It didn't really seem like you wanted to," Hawke commented dryly, folding her arms across her chest.

"And what would you have me do?" Fenris seethed. "Hadriana came after _me_! I've never had the option to simply walk away. Am I supposed to forgive, no matter how many times they hunt me down? Am I supposed to forget all things they've done to me?"

"Hatred is all you have, because it is all you _let _yourself have," she told him flatly. "Can't you see how, even now, everything you say or do is directly related to them? How every mistake you make is Danarius_'_ fault? Where do you begin to take responsibility for your own life? You're still letting him control you, and…it's eating you up, Fenris."

"_Shut up_!" he all but howled at her. "You know _nothing_ of being a slave! It's a sickness, this _hate_, this dark growth inside me that I can't ever get rid of, and _they_ put it there!" He glared at her for a moment before deflating. "This... isn't why I came here."

Raen felt a surge of guilt as he slumped his shoulders and turned to leave. This time, it wasn't some crazy Imperial blood mage that had hurt him, it was her.

"Wait, Fenris, I didn't mean to-" she began, reaching out to stop him.

Her hand barely touched the scarred olive skin of his arm, but the reaction was instantaneous. The world swirled into a bright azure flash as the sharp tips of his gauntlets dug into her biceps where he had grabbed her and slammed her back against the wall, cracking her head against the stone. _Hard_. Her vision swam as tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but somehow all her brain registered was the inviting hint of wine on warm breath. She'd never been this close to him. The nearness of his activated lyrium markings hummed against her magic, igniting a fire along her entire body and sending her into a state of mild delirium.

Through the haze clouding her slightly rattled brain, Hawke could make out the elf's handsome features forming an expression of horror and shame as he looked at her, suddenly realizing what he had almost done. He stumbled back a half step, clearly about to make a run for it, and Raen knew she should let him- Hell, she should probably toss him out herself- seeing how the man had been mere seconds away from phasing a hand through her chest and squishing a few of her vital organs.

But he was doing that thing she hated, where he winced away from her as though expecting to be struck. Fenris was proud by nature, every line of his lean body built to stand strong in the face of his many adversities. Raen loved that about him, the stupid fearless way he charged down opponents three times his size, usually to prevent them from taking a swing at _her_. He was her sulky knight in snug black leathers. Seeing him like this was...heart-wrenching.

Hawke had only meant to brush his bangs away from his deep green eyes. She wanted look into them when she told him it was all right; that there was no harm done. Yet somehow lips had suddenly followed fingers and she was kissing him. Once on his cheek, smooth and taught. Once at the corner of his mouth, where it bowed into that puzzled little frown he bore so often. And finally she turned her head just so to press her lips against that gorgeous full-lipped mouth.

Raen didn't know if it had something to do with the lyrium in his skin, the magic in her blood, or simply the fact that this was _Fenris_, but suddenly the whole world was on fire. The tender regard they had built up together over three years of hard-earned friendship was suddenly exploding with a passion that she never would have dreamed of. Raen had always thought the white haired elf was handsome, there was no denying that, but this was so much more than attraction. She was drowning. She was soaring. She was _so_ far gone.

Hawke took the fact that he hadn't killed her yet as a very good sign. Her elven friend could be very vocal and...violent, when people invaded his personal space. Thus far, he hadn't expressed an opinion either way, opting to simply stand still and let her ravish him. For her part, she would have been perfectly content to stay there for eons, doing nothing except kissing him. He smelled like leather and wood smoke, like the oil he used to tend his sword and armor, and like lyrium. But most of all he just smelled like_ Fenris_, and she nuzzled her nose under his jaw as she turned them around, eager to memorize that scent, to know all of him.

Raen pushed him lightly back into the wall she had just vacated, making him grunt in surprise. She stole the sound from his mouth, eagerly sealing it with her own again. His lips opened for her, startled, and she began the task of mapping the warm cavern of his mouth with her tongue enthusiastically. She could give him this, she could prove that mages were merely people, and that one of them in particular was more than willing to show him kindness, affection...and anything else he might need of her. She rubbed her hips against his suggestively, and slowly slid one leg between his, hoping to elicit a bit more of a reaction on his end.

As wordlessly requested, her actions caused him to raise his arms and place his hands against her back, holding her in a loose embrace. His hands were so light against her that she could barely feel the talons of his gauntlets through the fabric of her jerkin, and Andraste preserve her, but they were _trembling_. Hawke froze, struck with the realization that she might have made a grievous miscalculation of what was going on here.

Raen pulled back just far enough to make out his expression. The general impression she got from the elf was 'dazed'. Those wide forest eyes of his were glazed and unfocused, his soft lips were parted slightly, and his dark brows were hovering up under the white fringe of his hair. His gaze caught hers, and something that looked a lot like blind terror flashed across his face.

"Fenris?" she asked quietly, taking a step away to give him space. He instantly dropped his hands from her waist.

"H-hawke," he managed to rasp out in reply. He fidgeted nervously with the hem of his tunic and refused to meet her eyes for more than an instant.

"You..." She inhaled sharply through her nose, accepting that she might regret these next words the rest of her life. "You're allowed to say 'no', Fenris. ...you know that, don't you?"

"I-..." The warrior squirmed in obvious discomfort. "I just...do not..." He floundered helplessly, a look of pure frustration blooming across his features.

"I'm...sorry," the apostate whispered. She hung her head and stumbled back a few more steps.

"You... you are?" the elf asked, sounding surprised and a trifle wounded. Raen nodded rapidly in furious affirmation.

"I never should have..." She sighed heavily. "Our friendship is important to me; I don't want something like this to ruin it."

He gave her a wane smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"It is important to me as well." His voice was a low rumble, gentle as a receding storm. There was such a wide range of emotions pooling in his eyes, she didn't know which to believe, but amidst them there was definitely traces of a true and warm affection that she desperately wanted to cling to. And something that seemed a lot like trust, which she craved from him even more. Because Maker save them both, Raen knew in that very instant that she was in love with the poor bastard.

She _would_ end up falling for the man who lugged around more personal baggage than an Orlesian noble and had the most acrid hate for magic she had ever encountered. _Typical_. The same elf whose past had drilled his subservience to mages so completely into his brain that he couldn't even find the means to tell her to piss off when she had damn near jumped his bones in her foyer. Hawke was a bit disgusted with herself, to be honest, and she wasn't certain which of them would be in more danger if she didn't excuse herself from the current situation rather quickly.

"Then... you forgive me?" she asked thickly, more than a little worried that one of the most admirable men she'd ever met would want nothing to do with her now. Randomly assaulting someone with your mouth tended to do that to a relationship.

"If you desire forgiveness for your actions, then it is yours," he told her stiffly, every muscle in his body tense, ready for her next onslaught, no doubt. She gave him a curt nod.

"Well...good then. ...thank you," the apostate stumbled over her own tongue. "Good night, Fenris." She turned and began an awkward sort of scuttle towards the stairs that led up to her bedroom. Her face felt like it was on fire.

"Hawke," the elf blurted her name as though he had not been intending to say it. She looked over her shoulder to see him flexing the muscles of his jaw furiously, as though trying to chew up the words that wanted to escape him.

"You...did not have to stop," he told her finally, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

"Yes, I did," Hawke said solemnly and with much more conviction than she actually felt.

She stomped up the stairs in a manner she hoped came off as regal and at least somewhat dignified. Raen closed the door to her bedroom softly behind her and slid to the floor, dejected. Her heart was beating roughly in her throat, exulting over the kiss and furious at the way it had happened. She had taken what she wanted from him, just like every other mage he'd known, just like that bitch he'd killed this afternoon. She heard her front door slam as Fenris left, possibly forever. She buried her face in her hands. She was no better than a Magister.

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><p>AN: *ducks behind the couch* Sooooooorrrrryyyyyy...*whimper* Good things. More of them. I promise. All in the next chapter. I have a cunning plan.<p> 


	13. Howl

AN: Long chapter is long, but given the content, I'm hoping no one will complain. ;) This...was supposed to be sooooo much shorter. But I couldn't give Fenris and Raen anything less than excellence here. I'm not sure if I succeeded, but I damn well tried. Thank You to all my lovely readers and reviewers as always. I utterly adore you. Now, have fun with this scene that I know you've been waiting the whole story to get to. :P

Rated: MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Disclaimer: BioWare made it, I'm just borrowing.

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><p>Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Hawke had kissed him. Two excruciatingly long Maker-forsaken <em>miserable<em> weeks. Fenris was at his absolute wit's end.

He would go to the Hanged Man, and Hawke would be there, smiling at him with the same soft pink lips she had kissed him with. They would face an enemy together and he would suddenly find himself hyper aware of her every movement. The memories of the heat of her body pressed along his own taunted his imagination as he watched the sway of her hips when she broke into her easy loping run or the way the her thighs flexed beneath her trousers when she braced to cast a spell, which was torture. That particular development had an unfortunate tendency of making walking around…awkward afterwards. She had completely stopped trying to touch him, even for the purposes of healing, which was both a blessing and a torment. She would speak to him, and all he could hear was the shame in her voice when she had apologized; sorry she had kissed him. She hadn't meant to, hadn't _wanted_ to…and why would she? He was an escaped slave living in a 'borrowed' mansion, hobbled by years of pent up hatreds and physically deformed by the lyrium in his skin. What would a woman like Hawke possibly see in a man like him?

In the end, it didn't matter why. The kiss hung between them like a long golden thread, binding them at the wrists, completely inescapable. The wind blew and he could feel her sigh into his neck. He pushed his bangs back from his eyes and he recalled the gentle brush of her fingers. She laughed at something he said, and it was like the first rays of sunshine after a thunderstorm. Anders grabbed her by the waist when she tripped over a log, and he glared at every point which their bodies touched one another, hoping against hope that the blond apostate would simply burst into flames. The elf was slowly twisting himself up into an utter ruin of tangled emotions.

Which was how he had found himself stalking back in forth in her foyer like a caged animal at this ungodly hour of the night. Hadriana's former slave, Orana, had informed him several hours ago, in her quiet sputtering way, that the ladies of the house were out for the evening. The blonde wisp of an elf was still getting used to her new duties as Hawke's servant. She didn't have the nerve to ask him to leave, unaccustomed as she was to the idea of saying 'no' to anyone and generally terrified of everything. Fenris had shamefully taken advantage of this in order to plant himself stubbornly by the front door of the Amell estate to await his friend's return.

In the meantime, the warrior continued to pace and review his plan of action. Hawke would walk into her house, and she would be miraculously happy to see him. He would politely ask her mother to excuse them for a moment, and then he would say...something. Preferably words that were both intelligent and endearing. Granted, it was not his most innovative plan, but if he was being perfectly honest with himself, he wasn't entirely certain what he was hoping to get from this exchange. Should he kiss her? Fenris was fairly sure he wanted _that_. But how did one go about initiating such a thing? He didn't think Hawke would take kindly to him suddenly pawing at her like one of the drunken ruffians from the Hanged Man or, to be more specific, like Isabela. Maybe if he-

Hawke slammed the door open with a thunderous crash.

"Andraste's great flaming _arse_! I don't care if his father _is_ the Bann of Ostwick, if that Trevelyan boy _ever_ comes near me and my backside again, I will light his fool head on f-...Fenris?" The apostate was shocked out of her tirade when she nearly collided with the elf as he came to meet her.

Fenris was about to mutter some sort of half-formed and wholly mortified excuse for being there, when he actually paused and took stock of the sight before him. Hawke was wearing a long sleeved silken dress the pale silver-blue of starlight, and the full skirt of it was gathered up in her right hand to reveal bare feet that had long since turned an angry shade of pink from the cold of an early Free March spring. Her black hair appeared to have begun the evening as an elegant twist high on her head, showing off the delicate line of her throat. However, it seemed that her locks had attempted an insurrection at some point, as several long dark strands were now plastered to her face and neck. She was soaking wet.

"Hawke," he began thickly, trying to jam words past the lump in his throat. A simple gold necklace was the only accent to her finery, and his eyes traced the path down from where it lay draped across the creamy expanse of her bared shoulders to a little tear-shaped crystal hanging just above the valley of her small breasts. Fenris had never seen her dressed this way, and he found it both increased his desire to discuss what had passed between them while also making forming a coherent sentence incredibly difficult.

"Where are your shoes?" he asked finally, regretting the question the moment the words tumbled from his lips.

"Halfway to Ferelden, with any luck," she grumbled irately, wiggling her toes as though rejoicing in their freedom. "Why high born ladies voluntarily subject their feet to those things is beyond me."

"You…threw them in the harbor?" It may have sounded implausible, but this_ was_ Hawke, after all. He noted the rather large pool of water forming beneath where she stood. "Did you dive in after them?"

"It's raining," she informed him with a roll of her eyes. "Storming, really. It has been for hours... How long have you been here?"

"For...a while," he said evasively, feeling the heat of his embarrassment creeping up his neck. "My mind has been…somewhat preoccupied," he confessed, ducking his head a bit and fidgeting nervously with his hands. "Where is your mother?"

"Still at the party," Hawke said with a shrug. "I found the company a bit...lacking. I thought I should leave before I needed to punch someone." She stared at him quizzically for a few moments. "Might these distracting thoughts of yours have anything to do with the reason you decided to camp out in my foyer?"

His gaze drifted to her mouth, her lips were the soft dusky pink of a fading rose. Fenris' heartbeat quickened as he recalled the taste of them. He gulped.

"I...have been thinking of you," he admitted, his voice quiet, but steady. "In fact, I've been able to think of little else." He took a deep shuddering breath and lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Command me to go, and I shall."

This was apparently the wrong thing to say. The Fereldan woman straightened to her full height and furrowed her brow in obvious displeasure. There was a strong flare of color rising in her cheeks, though he couldn't tell if it was from anger or embarrassment, and she stuck her chin out at him proudly.

"I'm not going to 'command' you, Fenris," she snapped at him, her gray eyes flashing and flinty. "You don't have to do whatever I want all the time."

"What-why do you think I would?" the elf returned defensively with an air of rising indignation.

"_You just stood there!_" Hawke shouted, balling her hands at her sides and looking like she wanted something to hit. Fenris recoiled in surprise, stumbling back half a step. She took a few heaving breaths as she reigned in her temper, glaring angrily at the floor all the while. "I _kissed_ you…and you just stood there, as if it was something horrible being inflicted on you, like you were enduring it." She caught his gaze with eyes as cold and sharp as steel. "You don't have to _endure_ me, Fenris."

"I was...caught off guard," he mumbled, feeling foolish.

"You were afraid." Hawke insisted, sounding sad.

"_No_," Fenris maintained stubbornly, shaking his head at her. "I told you that I was not opposed to-"

Hawke cut him off mid-sentence, "'Not opposed to'? _Maker_, Fenris do you hear yourself?" She threw her hands up in exasperation. "You don't let someone kiss you because you can _tolerate _it! You do it because you _want_ to! Because you're crazy about them and-" Realizing what she was about to say, the mage stopped herself short with a roar of frustration and stormed past him towards the main hall of her manor.

"I am_ not_ Hadriana," she seethed. "I am not _Danarius_. I'm not just going to treat you like some kind of-"

He spun her around and silenced her with his mouth. Closed-lipped and clumsy, it was more like smashing their faces together than anything else, but it was still a kiss, and Fenris felt something in him cheering loudly with the triumph of it. Hawke gave a muffled 'mmf!' of surprise and he broke away, amazed at his own daring.

"I wanted to," Fenris told her simply, his voice was low and breathless, his green eyes dark with intent. He touched her cheek almost reverently, pushing away a damp strand of hair. "I _want_ to."

Hawke gaped at him for a few seconds like she'd never seen anything quite like him before, her gray eyes as wide as saucers. Her lips moved soundlessly as her mind scrambled for words. Comprehension seemed to dawn eventually, lighting up her features in what Fenris hoped was at least pleasure, if not outright joy. Her lips slowly curled up into an impish grin.

This time, when their lips met, it was entirely mutual and tender, if still a little inelegant on Fenris' end. Tearing away from each other long enough to breathe became more and more of a nuisance as they tripped their way into the main hall. Every touch between them was new and exhilarating, and neither of them cared enough about breaking things to pay much attention to where they were headed.

Completely unnoticed, Orana poked her head out from her room when the pair careened into Hawke's desk and sent several inkwells and piles of parchment crashing to the floor. The blonde elf gave a tiny squeak of alarm at the sight before her, and quickly slipped back behind the door with her face a flaming shade of red.

"My dress is wet," Hawke pointed out during one brief stop for air, trying very hard to sound serious, but the mischievous glint in her eyes gave her away.

"Yes?" Fenris replied, cocking his head to one side in confusion.

"I should probably get out of these clothes..." she commented with an overly dramatic sigh.

"Ah," the elf answered, disappointed, "Well, then...I should...leave you to it. Good night, Hawke." He gave the mage a jerky little half bow and turned to take his leave. She stopped him with a light touch on his shoulder.

"Lend me a hand?"

He looked back to find her beaming at him, bright-eyed and expectant. Something that felt suspiciously like happiness bubbled up inside his chest. Fenris didn't know if a smile had formed so effortlessly on his face in the entire course of his life. Becoming once more blissfully preoccupied with one another, taking frequent pauses for flurries of sloppy kissing and bouts of laughter, the couple stumbled up the stairs and into Hawke's bedchamber.

They shut the door behind them a little harder than they needed to in their rush for real privacy and the sound of it seemed to send some of the former slave's insecurities jolting back to him. To say that he was interested in spending the night with Hawke was a vast understatement, one area of his anatomy in particular was rather over-eager at the prospect, but there were certain aspects of physical intimacy which gave him pause. What if she was displeased with the sight of his body? Sex generally meant being naked, and there was a very real possibility that seeing just how badly Danarius had mangled his flesh with lyurim and other various forms of punishment would cause her turn away from him. He was not certain he could endure such a rebuff, not with the way his heart was thundering in his chest just from kissing her.

There were other considerations, of course. His own sexual experiences were incredibly limited and largely unpleasant. Fenris had little confidence in his ability to pass as a proficient lover. _Venhedis_, what if he hurt her some how? What if he-

Hawke drew him back to her with cool hands cupping his jaw delicately, still getting used to the idea that she could touch him as much as she wanted now. Within reason.

"Hey you," she said quietly, her face close enough that her breath fanned across his lips. She scanned his face for a moment as a flicker of worry sparked behind her eyes. "Where did you go just now?"

"I...have never allowed anyone to get too close," he admitted, bringing a hand up to cover one of hers.

"Does that mean you've never...?" she pulled back a bit to get a clear view of his face, clearly surprised. He could feel the embarrassment burning in his cheeks as his eyes darted away from her.

"If there was someone before, I have no memory of it," Fenris told her with a tight shrug of his shoulders.

"Not even after you escaped?" she persisted as though she refused to see how he could have gone seven years without a constant stream of admirers. He gave a self-depreciating chuckle at the thought.

"I stayed nowhere for long. Who would I trust?" he asked her with a faint smile. "I didn't think I needed anyone. Or wanted anyone. ...until now."

"Sweet-talker," she said teasingly, and kissed him for his trouble. "I thought you were supposed to be helping me out of this dress?"

"Ah. Y-yes, I-" Fenris stammered with an air of mounting panic.

"Hey hey, easy does it," Hawke said with a reassuring smile, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender. "We don't have to do anything you aren't comfortable with. I'm not going to think any less of you if you want to stop things here."

"No!" Fenris barked in dismay, grabbing her roughly by the arms. She winced as the sharp metal dug into her skin. He instantly pulled away, ducking his head. "..._no_. It is not that..." Green eyes peered up her from under the snowy curtain of his hair, pleading. "I was meant to be a weapon, Hawke," he tried to explain. "I have had little practice in being...gentle."

"Well, I'm certainly not opposed to things getting a little bit rough," she said smilingly, reaching out to take one of his hands in hers, "but if it's 'gentle' you want, perhaps we should start by removing these?"

Hawke carefully pulled off his left gauntlet and dropped it to the floor. She lightly traced the shape of his mostly naked hand, causing the lines of lyrium etched into his skin to gutter like a candle caught in a breeze. She met his gaze with a warm smile before raising his hand to her lips and placing a kiss in the center of his callused palm. He caressed her cheek hesitantly and she closed her eyes in contentment, leaning heavily into his touch.

Fenris exhaled her name like a prayer, moving his hand to the back of her head and pulling her closer to him. He pressed his lips to hers, slow and searching, drawing out a pleased hum as he cautiously slipped his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the way she had kissed him previously. Emboldened by her reaction, he slid his still-armored hand about her waist, pressing the sharp talons into her back just enough to make her give a small squeak of surprise and arch further into him. She nipped at his bottom lip in playful retaliation, grabbing at the hand at her hip to yank the gauntlet from it, enabling him to delve all ten fingers into the dark mass of her hair. Every place their skin met was soft and warm and slightly damp. Hawke smelled like the rain she'd walked home in with traces of faint flowery soap, intoxicating him with the scents of spring.

"Why did you even bother with armor?" she laughed breathlessly against his mouth when they paused for air. "Did you expect me to attack you? Set your pants on fire?"

"On the contrary, I was rather _hoping_ you would attack me, in a manner of speaking," he rumbled huskily. "As for my pants...Well, I suppose I can always purchase a new pair. Almost any method of removal would be welcome at this point. Certain areas are becoming...uncomfortable."

Hawke bit her lip and smiled, her gray eyes darting down to his groin, where his tunic was only managing to partially conceal the straining leather of his breeches.

"Don't worry," she smirked. "I like those pants. More specifically, I like watching you in those pants. They highlight quite a few of your more prominent..._assets_ in a way I've grown rather fond of over the years. I have no plans of burning or otherwise maiming any harmless articles of clothing for this night. Now, help me get out of this blighted dress before I'm forced to change my mind about setting things on fire and do something awful to it."

"Who could refuse such enticements?" Fenris chuckled as she turned her back to him. The cool fabric of the dress slid beneath his hands like water, the ties lacing the back of it parting with a few nimble tugs. Hawke gave an audible sigh of relief.

"You've proven fairly resistant to my charms up until now," she commented lightly, shuddering a little when he peeled some of the wet silk away from her skin and slipped his hand inside her dress. Her sleeve bunched awkwardly at her elbow as the gown sagged to accommodate the intruder. She snuggled back into him as his fingers slowly smoothed a warm path across her skin that curled from the right side of her ribcage down to her navel, just above her hip.

He gave a thoughtful hum in reply as he nuzzled his nose behind her ear, kissing her neck softly when she tilted her head to grant him greater access.

"I admit, I had little thought of finding comrades when I came to Kirkwall, let alone someone who…well," he paused to press his lips to a thin scar on her shoulder, "_you_."

"For someone who claims to have never thought of this before, you seem rather…excited." She punctuated the statement by grinding her backside into his crotch with an air of slight impatience. Fenris groaned and buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing raggedly. He dragged his free hand down her left arm, forcing her gown to pool at her waist. This earned him a generous view of the tops of her creamy breasts from where they peeked out from the thin cotton band that bound them.

"I had two weeks to consider where I stood on the matter," he murmured into her soft white skin as he alternated between sucking at her pulse point and peppering her throat with damp kisses and light scraping bites.

"And where _do_ you stand?" Hawke managed to pant breathlessly. She twined her right arm around the back of his head and twisted her fingers into the silky white hair at the nape of his neck, unsuccessfully trying to tug him closer. Meanwhile, her left hand went to cover his, tangling their fingers together against the flat of her stomach.

"Right about..._here_," he growled quietly into her ear as he brought their joined hands to the junction of her legs, cupping her through thin sliver-blue silk.

Hawke gasped in surprise, which quickly bled into pleasure as strong tan fingers began gently rubbing at her in achingly slow circles. She pressed his hand more firmly against herself and bucked into his palm, begging wordlessly for more friction. A broken whine tore from her throat as his tempo increased. Fenris found his hips stuttering forward despite himself, wanting more of her. His brands flashed briefly as his control slipped, and Hawke screamed. She threw her head back sharply as her back bowed, static electricity skittering across her skin. Fenris jumped back instinctually to get away from the magic and she stumbled forward, clutching her head.

"Ow..._fuck_," she muttered between labored breaths, her hand still pressed to the right side of her head. "I... _Maker_...sorry. Sorry about the spell, it's been a while for me, too." She pulled her hand away from her hair and found it smeared with blood. "Shit, I think I stabbed myself on one of your pauldrons."

"Hawke!" Fenris exclaimed, rushing back to her side.

"I'm alright," she assured him, loosing a flash of healing magic at her wound casually, "but _you_ are entirely too spiky." Hawke looked down at her rumpled finery and general state of disarray. "And I think I should take matters into my own hands if this dress is going to survive the evening."

He felt his face twist into something that probably looked a lot like petulant disappointment. Hawke giggled and kissed his cheek, taking his hands in hers. She smiled at him fondly.

"Don't worry," she said, her grin curling into something distinctly more cat-like, "if tonight goes the way I'm assuming we both want it to, you'll have plenty of opportunities in the future to take my clothes off with your own two hands."

He growled something possessive in Arcanum and attempted to wrangle her into another deep kiss, but she darted away from him, laughing in delight. She pulled her dress over her head slowly as she sauntered towards the dresser beside her bed, swinging her hips a bit more than was strictly necessary. Fenris was fairly certain his brain stopped working for a few seconds as Hawke's long shapely legs made their appearance, followed shortly by the taut perfection of her cotton-clad ass.

"Are you taking off your armor?" she asked over her shoulder, sounding decidedly smug as she began pulling numerous pins from her hair. Fenris shook himself from his stupor and scrabbled to extricate himself from the various straps and buckles that held his breast plate and shoulder guards in place. He had barely managed to unclasp his belt when she returned to his side in nothing but her breast band and her smalls. He swallowed thickly.

"Much better." Hawke looked up at him through the soft ebony sweep of her bangs, her cheeks a trifle rosy, her smile a little shy. "It makes it much easier for me to do things like this." She stepped forward and, inexplicably, she hugged him. Outside of the fact that she was mostly naked, it seemed an odd seduction tactic...not that Fenris needed much convincing at this point. Still, he felt his heart lodge in his throat; when was the last time someone had simply held him? Before the markings? ...Ever? He wrapped his arms around her tightly, a quiet choking sound breaking past his lips as he buried his face in the loose waves of her hair.

"Maybe we should sit down?" she breathed into his neck, kissing a line of fire along his jaw. Fenris shuddered before nodding dumbly. She stepped backwards, taking both of his hands in hers, and gently led him towards the bed.

Hawke dropped into a sitting position on the mattress with a somewhat graceless flop and scooted backwards to give him room, clearly surprised when he opted to sit beside her instead of...something else. She adapted quickly however, leaning over and running her hands lightly up the lithe muscles of his arms before bringing them together at the first toggle of his tunic. She gave him a searching look.

"May I?" she whispered.

"Yes," he croaked in reply. His heart was fluttering madly, like a bird trying to break free from the cage of his ribs.

He could have imagined it, but Fenris thought her hands were shaking just a little as she undid the fastenings of his shirt. Hawke was staring intently at his chest, as though she thought blinking might make him disappear. Every inch her slim pale fingers moved down his body seemed to make it harder and harder to drag air into his lungs. He hissed in unexpected pleasure when she inadvertently brushed against his arousal. Her eyes snapped up to his, stormy and wanting. She bit her lip.

Hawke pulled his tunic open and slid the dark fabric from his shoulders. She inhaled sharply at the sight. It took all his strength not to duck away from her, terrified of what truth he might find lurking in her face. He nearly tumbled off the bed when he felt her fingers ghost over his clavicle.

"_Beautiful_," she breathed, idly tracing a whorl of lyrium across his pectoral. Her cheeks blushed brilliantly at the look of astonishment on his face, and she immediately began backpedaling. "I m-mean, they're awful, and I know they hurt you, and of course you'd be gorgeous without them, I just- mmf!"

Fenris knocked her backwards onto the plush mattress, claiming her mouth savagely. He shrugged his shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it carelessly behind him, keeping his lips firmly clamped over hers all the while. Her clever tongue came to meet his as he mapped the contours of her mouth in a frenzy. She responded by coiling her tongue around his, sucking avidly. His hips jerked forward as her hands found their way to the back of his head, burying themselves in his white hair, tugging it lightly in encouragement. She shifted her legs so he could settle between them, gasping when he ground his prominent erection against her core. The layers of supple leather and soft cotton still separating them were almost unbearable.

"What- ah, what would you have me do?" Fenris asked between kisses, a moan tearing from him as she latched onto his earlobe and gently worried it with her teeth.

"_Anything_," she purred. "However you want to handle this, whatever you want to do...you have me completely at your disposal."

"But what if I-" he began to protest when she distracted him with a lingering kiss.

"You're fine, Fenris," she assured him with a crooked grin. "You're _wonderful_." She ran her hands down his back soothingly, squeezing his hips a little. "Trust your instincts and trust me... Just do what feels right, and I'll follow your lead."

The license to do whatever he pleased was more daunting than Hawke could know, and he was honestly a bit helpless as to where to begin. They fit together flawlessly, as though the Maker himself had ordained it, hip to hip, chest to chest, and eye to eye. Neither had to contort themselves or compromise to reach the place where they were wanted. Fenris reveled in the warm slide of their naked torsos against one another, enjoying the feel of the hardened peaks of her nipples rubbing at his chest even through the barricade of their binding. It seemed as good a place to start as any.

Fenris snaked a hand between their bodies and began kneading her right breast gingerly. Hawke's hand flew to cover his, pushing his palm more firmly to her flesh, easily persuading him to increase the pressure of his motions. While the Fereldan's bust line might be considered modest when compared to a certain pirate of their acquaintance, Fenris enjoyed the perfect way they fit into his palms. She made a breathy sound of approval as he kissed and licked and nipped his way down to the neglected twin of the one still in his hand. He shifted to his knees, bending over her as he tugged her breast band out of the way and began laving at one perk pink nipple. Hawke's thighs clenched on either side of him, her pelvis squirming as she threw her head back and gave a plaintive whimper.

His confidence building steadily, Fenris continued his exploration of her body, lazily mouthing his way down the taut plane of her stomach, his tongue darting out occasionally to trace patterns on her creamy skin. Hawke's fingers scrambled for purchase, one hand digging fruitlessly into the thick downy comforter while the other twisted harshly into his snowy hair. He hooked an arm under her leg, hoisting it onto his shoulder and gripping her hip with one strong callused hand to hold her still as he reached the apex of her thighs.

Fenris paused his investigation long enough to look up at her, smiling faintly in adoration and leaning his head against the inside of her leg. She met his gaze with hooded eyes, her face and chest flushed a healthy rose color, desire and a dazed sort of helplessness stealing any words she might have had for him. He bent his head and nuzzled the sensitive skin at the junction of her hip and upper thigh, releasing a warm breath of air against her cloth covered entrance. She quivered deliciously.

"Fenris," Hawke rasped. _Fenris_- the meaning of his name became a lovely sort of plea as it slid from her lips. He had never harbored much fondness for his name; it was simply one more unpleasant reminder of his time as a slave, but hearing it in this manner from _this_ woman... He would have been content to spend the rest of his days listening to the desperate sounds of her wanting him.

He pulled her smalls to one side, revealing a light dusting of damp black curls, and beyond them, the glistening slit of her sex. Hawke regained enough presence of mind to stroke his hair softly in a gentle wordless invitation, and he hesitantly ran his tongue along her folds. Her reaction was instantaneous and emboldening. Her hips surged upward, eagerly seeking more of his attentions.

Fenris gave a deep throaty growl, pinning her to the mattress with strong lean arms and digging his fingers into the toned muscles of her backside with enough force to bruise as he began lapping at her in earnest. The scent of her was heady and nearly overpowering, the taste of her beyond comparison. He discovered the little bundle of nerves above her entrance quite by accident, as she nearly arched out of his grasp at the unexpected sizzle of pleasure. He immediately shifted his focus to the area that had garnered such a favorable response, licking and sucking at it gently by turns. She rewarded him with high pitched gasps of elation, but it wasn't until his fingers joined his tongue that she truly lost control.

Fenris cautiously rubbed at her clit with the pad of one slim callused thumb, while still laving at her with his tongue. He moved slowly at first, increasing both pressure of his touch and the speed of his motions when it became obvious that she was enjoying his ministrations. Her entire body writhed in frantic ecstasy, her hands were tremulous and grasping as she scrambled for something to ground her. Hawke called out to him in a voice that trailed away as though she were falling before her mind was lost to the cresting wave of her passion, her words dissolving into a ragged cry as she came.

He crawled back up her body, smiling at her with a very smug sense of masculine pride. Hawke clamped her hands on either side of his face and pulled him into a deep claiming sort of kiss. She broke away as she lost herself in huffs of breathless laughter.

"You were either lying through your teeth earlier, or we have just discovered a Maker-given talent that needs to be exploited. Frequently." she informed him shakily, a slightly worn-out smile ghosting across her lips. Fenris felt himself flush all the way to the tips of his pointed ears at the praise, but he couldn't fight down the satisfied smirk that tugged at his lips if he had wanted to.

Hawke rolled them over so that she was straddling his hips, causing the lyrium branded into his skin to flare to life with the force of his surprise. She gasped and shuddered violently, nearly collapsing on top of him at the sudden rush of mana that flooded her veins. He grabbed her arms to steady her and she flashed him an apologetic smile.

"Serves me right for trying to take some initiative," she said with a dry chuckle. She seemed to shake off the shock easily enough, reaching behind her back an unclasping the breast band Fenris had mussed earlier and tossing it carelessly behind her. He ran his hands up her sides and began massaging her breasts, a pleased sounding rumble emanating from his chest. She laughed, and leaned down to smear his mouth with a messy kiss.

"Such a _man_," she teased, but there was a warmth in her expression that said she didn't mind in the least, "one glimpse at a set of tits and everything else goes out the window." He shot her a feral grin before squeezing her breasts a little harder, making her squeal. She gave him a wicked smile as she slid her hands down the trim muscles of his chest and abdomen to lightly finger the laces of his breeches.

"I thought it was about time I returned some of the generous attention you've been giving me," Hawke explained huskily, moving backwards on her knees until her face was level with his hips, her hands fumbling eagerly with the knotted cords of leather. He reached down to assist her, but she swatted him away impatiently.

Fenris hissed through his teeth when she finally freed her prize from his worn black leathers. Hawke gave a little startled gasp at her discovery and his gaze snapped down to hers. She was blushing furiously.

"What's wrong?" he asked hoarsely, concern lancing through his tone.

"Oh! _Nothing_!" she assured him hurriedly. "You are..._wow_. ...I think I owe Isabela a sovereign."

"Do I even want to know?" he queried with a raised brow.

"Probably not," she laughed. She tugged his pants a litter farther down his hips before slowly pumping his impressive length with pale nimble fingers. Fenris groaned, but the pleasure of her touch was quickly doused with memories of other touches from other hands not so welcome. He grabbed her wrist.

"Hawke," he whispered, gentle, but still warning. She halted immediately, noticing the tension in the lines of his body, the shadows of distant nightmares in his eyes. "Not that."

She nodded and went back to the task of pulling his pants down his legs. She must have sensed his apprehension however, because she paused long enough to place a reassuring kiss on his left knee. Her gray eyes looked up at him with a painful amount of understanding.

"Secrets," she commented with a sad smile. He reached out for her, kicking his breeches away as she crawled back into his embrace. Fenris crushed her to him in a fit of desperation, slanting his mouth over hers and delving into her, as if hoping he would drown.

He mapped the shapes of her back, the dip of her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the swell of her generous hips. He committed her to memory, and hoped it was the only one that would outlast the night. He ran his branded fingers up the backs of her thighs on a mission to finally divest her of her small clothes and came across the rough skin of a large strangely shaped scar on the outside of her upper left thigh. He couldn't get a proper view of it from his position, but it was nearly the length of his hand. How had he not seen it before?

"What's this?" he asked when they stopped kissing for the unfortunate necessity of finding air to fill their lungs, running his fingers over the scar again. She gripped his forearm.

"_Secrets_," she whispered, nearly a sob. Hawke bit his ear and he took the hint, '_shut up and kiss me_.' So he did.

He kissed her like fire scorching her from the inside out as he tore her panties down her legs. He kissed her like a hurricane as he swept her into the strong circlet of his arms and rolled them back over so that she was beneath him once more. He kissed her like warm summer rain, his lips lightly ghosting over her eyelids, her cheekbones, her brow. She clung to his shoulders tremulously, whimpering his name when he slid a hand between her legs and slipped one long slender finger into her folds. His movements were measured and gentle, stroking and cautiously thrusting by turns.

"Please," Hawke gasped, digging her nails into his back. His only response was to kiss her soundly and add a second finger, pumping them into her in a slow even rhythm. He began rubbing her clit with his thumb and she bit back a scream. "Fernis, _please_."

Hawke bucked into his palm, aching for all of him. She cupped his jaw and plied him with a soft nibbling kiss and carded her fingers through his snow white hair.

"I want you," she breathed against his mouth. "Don't make me wait anymore."

Powerless against such a plea, Fenris placed one hand by her head and used the other to guide himself as he gradually pushed into her. He clenched his eyes shut at the sensation, warm and tight and slick around him. It was almost enough to send him over the edge all on its own. She arced her back a little, twisting her hips and causing the muscles of her sex to clench around him even more.

"_Hawke_," he groaned in admonition, his hips jerking forward slightly of their own accord.

"Not Hawke," she begged, wrapping her legs around his waist to draw him closer, "not here."

"What?" he managed to grunt, confused.

"_Raen_," she urged him frantically, "I want to be Raen again. I want to be Raen with _you_." She dragged him down and kissed him ravenously. "_Please_."

"Raen." The whisper of her name rolled from his mouth like a distant rumble of thunder. She was the start of a storm, the promise of rejuvenation with the hint of danger and a synonym for the soaring feeling rising in his chest. She smiled at him like a flash of lightening, and Fenris could resist no longer.

He pulled almost all the way out of her before surging forward again, sheathing himself to the hilt. She keened his name and tightened around him and Fenris saw stars. They began to move together, sweat soaked and sinuous, and somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped that whatever he might be lacking in skill he could make up with sincere enthusiasm. His hips snapped forward to meet hers, vigorous and erratic, the ever-changing strokes keeping her constantly on edge.

She wound herself around him like a vine, possessing him, demanding more of anything he had to offer as she arched to answer every thrust, utterly lost in the feel of him sliding into her depths. Words abandoned them, all thoughts fled, the world shrank down to the tiny island of Hawke's bed and the two people tumbling to oblivion atop it.

He pushed her knees up to her chest, attempting to thrust impossibly deeper and she hooked her legs over his shoulders. She yanked his face down to hers and kissed him, sloppy and senseless, every muscle in her body straining to keep him near. The new angle was dizzying, the intensity of the friction building between them sharpening to one small bright glimmering point.

His fingers dug into her biceps as he scrabbled to ground himself. She sucked firmly on one sensitive pointed ear, and the last of his severely frayed control vanished. He bit the junction of her neck and shoulder in brutal retaliation, slamming his hips into her hard enough to crush the air from her lungs. She tossed her head back as a ragged scream tore from her throat. Her skin ignited in a brilliant flare of raw mana as she came apart at the seams.

He gave a hoarse cry and his back bowed dramatically as the torrent of her magic crashed through him, his brands violently blazing to life as he followed her into the void. A streak of dull pain was quickly swept up in a sea of bone-melting pleasure, and he distantly felt Hawke's legs fall from his shoulders as he gave a few last stuttering thrusts. His body was thrumming with the ecstasy of his climax and his mind was lost in a hazy fog of bliss.

The images that followed were like a sudden hail of arrows.

An elven man staring at him with solemn green eyes, a dagger held to his throat by a Magister. Someone had covered Fenris' face before he could see the fatal blow, but he'd cried out regardless, the broken wail of a child. A scrawny girl with hair the color of fire, laughing in a bleak-looking courtyard. A fretful woman with dark nervous hands. The blood-soaked sand of an arena hot between his toes. The crowd roaring for further carnage. Names and voices and countless visions swarmed his senses as Hawke's room dissolved into a flood of blinding white light.

Fenris collapsed heavily on top of her, shaken. He rolled away at Hawke's startled sound of surprise, flinging an arm across his face as he fought to collect himself. The memories had been more clear and agonizingly perfect than any other fleeting flashback he had ever experienced, even more so than the previous instance of his markings reacting to Raen's magic, but even now they were dissipating faster than a thin coil of smoke caught in a breeze. It was enough to make him want to howl in frustration at the injustice of his fate.

And then Raen's hand found its way into his, lacing their fingers together.

"_Fenris_," she breathed, unwittingly calling him back to her. The expression in her eyes was soft as he met her gaze, her smile sweaty and satisfied. She was thoroughly disheveled, rosy-cheeked, and radiant, and that was enough chase off most of his concerns in favor of remembering that he was, in fact, laying next to a beautiful naked woman and coming down from a fantastically mind-bending orgasm. It was a scene too precious to spoil with old wounds. The past could wait a little while longer for him to find it.

He raised their joined hands to his lips, placing a tender kiss on the back of her hand. Hawke squeezed his fingers and nuzzled closer to him. She heaved a deep sigh of supreme contentment and soon after drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>AN: "What? You're stopping here?" Yes. I am. (for now) Shhhh, let the babies be happy for a while.<p> 


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